


A Legacy of Truth: Act III

by Arbryna



Series: A Legacy of Truth [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:09:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arbryna/pseuds/Arbryna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marian is now the Champion of Kirkwall--a title that brings with it the scrutiny of the Knight-Commander of the templars, and Meredith is not the sort of person a confessor wants too close. Meanwhile, the mage resistance is growing stronger and more organized every day. Protecting her family becomes harder than ever before as Marian finds herself caught in the middle of a conflict that is threatening to erupt into violence at any moment. </p><p>To further complicate things, Isabela returns to Kirkwall after running off in the aftermath of Marian's duel with the Arishok three years earlier. She knows what Marian is now, but what does it mean for them? And when Anders forces the city into all-out war, will Marian even survive long enough for her feelings to matter?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Codex Entry:**

**On Confessors, Part Four: Family**

Family has always been vital to confessors. Over the generations, we have been forced to redefine the word, to shape it to reflect those most important to us. We do not have the luxury of family in the traditional sense: the insular unit of mother, father, and children. For a confessor, raising children alongside their confessed mate would be a lonely fate indeed.

Instead, we have created sprawling family trees—with mothers and daughters, of course, but also sisters, not only of blood but also of spirit. We have long relied on the help of kind souls who offer us aid, who shield us from the templars and offer us food and shelter and companionship. The bonds of family forged by a confessor are stronger than any mere blood connection.

A confessor would die for her family, as they would for her. To a confessor, nothing is more sacred.


	2. Chapter 2

He was a thing of beauty—with that dusky Nevarran complexion, like warm caramel, and muscles that could hoist her lines any day of the week. Strong hands, a fine, chiseled jaw, sprinkled with dark stubble just the right length to scrape a bit when he buried his face in her chest. 

And good—Andraste’s tits, he was good. Knew just how to arch up when she rolled her hips, how to dig his fingers into her thighs just this side of bruising. By all accounts, Isabela should have been having the ride of her life—or at least up there in the top ten. 

Except she couldn’t get into it—hadn’t been able to for three sodding years. Oh, she had her fun, and she got off all right—if there had ever been one good thing to come from her marriage, it had been the lessons she’d learned locked away with those dirty books, and she’d never had trouble ensuring her own pleasure—but _enjoying_ it, losing herself in the sweat and mess and heat of it…

Leave it to Hawke to bloody ruin sex for her without ever actually giving her any. 

The Nevarran—she never had got his name—tensed beneath her, grunting as his fingers dug in that little bit harder, then fell back against the sheets. Isabela considered him for a moment, trailing her fingers in idle circles across the sweat-slick skin of his chest. She wasn’t finished yet, but she could fix that in a hurry, with a few practiced flicks of her wrist, one or two good thrusts against him before he lost all of his vigor, but she found herself thinking it wasn’t really worth the effort.

 _That_ was a depressing thought. If sex wasn’t worth the effort, then what was the point of living? 

Isabela climbed off of him with a sigh, rolling to sit on the edge of the bed as she tried to remember where he’d tossed her smalls. When she got up to fetch them, her thighs didn’t quiver at all—bloody disappointing. 

“Leaving so soon?” his rough Nevarran accent, the one she’d found so enticing downstairs in the tavern, now grated on her nerves.

“What do you care?” Isabela said idly, slipping her smalls back up over her boots. “You got what you were after.” With a shimmy of her hips, everything was back in place—a benefit to clothes that provided easy access. 

He frowned, having the nerve to almost look hurt. “Was it so terrible? You seemed to be enjoying yourself,” he finished with a self-conscious laugh. 

Isabela rolled her eyes. “You were fine, sweet thing. Just got other places to be, is all.” Sliding her daggers back into their sheaths, she gave him one last look—Maker, he really was gorgeous—and headed out the door.

She wasn’t quite sure how she’d ended up in Cumberland—it was too far into the Waking Sea, too far away from the open Amaranthine Ocean—but then, she’d been drifting from port to port for so long that she was more impressed that she even remembered where she was in the first place. She felt lost, rudderless, and it unnerved her. 

Going wherever the wind took her had always worked before. The destination hadn’t mattered, as long as she had a good solid deck beneath her feet and cool salt spray on her face. She’d never _wanted_ a purpose in life, other than to wander aimlessly and have as much fun as possible before she met the wrong end of a blade, so why should it bother her now?

Hawke. It always came down to that bloody woman. Isabela still didn’t know what in flames Hawke had done to her, but she remembered every last minute of being her willing slave. She wanted to hate Hawke for it—even Luis had given her the option to disobey, even if it meant some sort of punishment—but she couldn’t even manage that. Torture she could deal with, insults or neglect or total subjugation or humiliation—she knew how to combat those, how to fight back or let them roll off of her like so many raindrops in a storm. 

What Hawke had done had been worse, so much worse. Hawke had _cared_. She’d made Isabela a slave to her bloody will and then done absolutely nothing about it. The worst Isabela could accuse her of was stealing a few kisses, and she knew damn well she’d have willingly given Hawke a lot more than that. She’d practically had to beg for Hawke to give her something—anything—to do, some way to win her approval and love—two things Isabela had never given a flea’s arse about before, and never intended to start. 

The worst part was that she couldn’t even blame Hawke. It had been her own stubborn recklessness that had put her in Hawke’s path when it—whatever _it_ was—happened, and instead of grieving the death of her mother, something she had every bloody right to do, Hawke had spent her time beating herself up over Isabela and trying to find a way to make it right.

She’d never known anyone like Hawke—hadn’t thought someone like that could even exist. It made her think things— _feel_ things—that she’d spent the last three years trying in vain to forget. Things like respect, and affection, and—

Balls. She had to stop thinking about this. She didn’t even know if these thoughts or feelings were even hers. Hawke had said herself that no one had ever reversed this power of hers before—maybe Merrill hadn’t gotten all of it, maybe there was still some small something buried deep, latching on for dear life and biding its time until it could grow strong enough and spread through her once again, like a cancer. 

That was probably what it was. Just some remnants of Hawke’s very powerful, very disturbing magic. If she could find a way to get rid of it, maybe she could get back to the way her life had been before—a life she’d liked just fine, thank you very much. 

The only problem was, she knew exactly where to go for answers—and it was the last place in Thedas she ever wanted to go again.

***

The Gallows was an oppressive place. Marian always felt on edge here, but never quite so much as when she visited the Templar Hall. Over the past three years, Knight-Commander Meredith had called her in on several occasions, seeking help with minor problems that could easily be handled by the templars; Marian got the impression Meredith was simply taking measure of her, trying to judge how big of a threat she might become. It was a wise move, Marian had to admit, and she would admire it if she wasn’t so terrified of being discovered. There had always been something suspicious in the Knight-Commander’s cold blue eyes, something that suggested that Meredith knew Marian was hiding something, even if she hadn’t yet figured out what it was.

This was the first time she’d been quite so blatant with her intentions, however. Asking Marian to track down apostates, return them to the Circle? It was clearly a test. 

“Why come to me with this?” Marian asked, folding her arms over her chest. “Have all your templars suddenly disappeared?”

Meredith’s eyes narrowed. “The apostates are being sheltered by their families. Some have been reluctant to talk to templars,” she said, irritation edging her voice. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the side of her mouth. “But you are another matter. You’ve always had a way of getting the truth from the people of Kirkwall. They will be…more honest for you than for us.”

A chill seized Marian’s spine. Did Meredith know? Could she? Marian pushed down her panic; if Meredith knew what she was, she’d have had her killed long ago. The look in her eyes was still mere suspicion, not certainty—and Meredith knew very well that if the Champion of Kirkwall was accused of being a monster without sufficient proof, the citizens would be far more inclined to turn against her accuser. It was as she’d thought—this was a test.

“I’m not doing your job for you,” Marian sneered. 

The Knight-Commander’s demeanor hardened. “You have a sister in the Circle of Magi, do you not?” Her tone was casual—too casual. “Bethany is her name?”

Marian’s hands flexed at her sides. If she wasn’t in the heart of templar headquarters, she might be sorely tempted to attack. “What about her?” she asked through her teeth.

Meredith shrugged, a victorious gleam in her eye. “She is an exemplary mage. Disciplined, obedient. It would be a shame for her to get caught in the crossfire of some ill-fated rebellion.”

It was a veiled threat, but there nonetheless: if Marian even appeared to take part in any action against the Circle or the templars, Meredith would see to it that Bethany was punished. Marian was furious, but helpless—and Meredith knew it.

“Talk to these mages’ families,” Meredith instructed, not even bothering to give Marian a chance to refuse. “Investigate for yourself if they need be recaptured.”

“Seems like you’re giving me a lot of rope,” Marian remarked mildly. “Trying to hang me with it?”

Meredith didn’t acknowledge the accusation, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes that was confirmation enough. “My assistant Elsa will give you the details,” Meredith said, gesturing toward a placid blonde girl in mage robes standing in the corner of the courtyard. Even from where they stood, the sunburst seared into her forehead was all too visible. Meredith turned back to Marian with a cold, barely-civil smirk. “I bid you good day, Champion.”

Referring Marian to her Tranquil assistant was no accident; it sent an all too clear message about what could happen to Bethany if Marian didn’t obey. Clenching her fists, Marian approached the girl to get what information she could.

It was Meredith’s game, and Marian would play by her rules—for now.

***

If the situation weren’t so grim, Marian might have laughed. If Meredith’s plan had been to catch Marian doing something incontrovertibly wrong, it had thus far failed miserably. Marian had managed to track down two of the escaped apostates, each of which had already been in the throes of demonic possession by the time she’d arrived. She hated to think she was doing the templars’ dirty work for them, but once a mage had succumbed to a demon, there were only two choices—fight or die.

Perhaps Meredith had only been trying to convince Marian to see things her way—to show her that mages were dangerous, and exploit the influence of the Champion to further her own agenda—but that would hardly explain the templars Marian had seen tailing her as she went about her investigation. 

Only one apostate yet remained—Emile de Launcet, who, if his parents were anything to go by, promised to be a pretentious spoiled brat. Marian didn’t doubt that the de Launcets would protect their son no matter what he did, and the fact that she’d been attacked by blood mages shortly after leaving their estate didn’t bode well for her chances of taking Emile in alive. 

Marian certainly didn’t believe that all mages were fated for inevitable corruption, but she did have to admit that she’d seen more blood mages in the last three years than in the whole rest of her life put together. At this point, one more would hardly faze her. 

If he were a blood mage, though, he hid it well. Marian spotted him when she walked into the Hanged Man, slumped over a table clutching a mug. He somehow didn’t seem…competent enough to deal in blood magic. 

“Emile de Launcet?” Marian asked, raising an eyebrow at his disheveled state. For a moment he was still, and Marian could have sworn she heard a faint snore. Marian rolled her eyes and poked at his shoulder.

He jolted awake, blinking up at her with bleary eyes. “Wow,” he said with a sad attempt at a charming grin. “Are you…are you a mage? Because you just magicked my breath away.”

Marian groaned, glancing pointedly at Aveline. “He’s even worse at that than you were.”

Aveline snorted. “At least I knew enough to ask for help.”

Shaking her head, Marian turned back to Emile. “You need more practice with women,” she said dryly.

“Can I practice on you?” Emile asked, giggling drunkenly. “In private?”

“Can I kill him yet?” Varric asked from behind her. “He’s hurting me.”

“Believe me,” Marian said to Emile with a chuckle, “a night with me wouldn’t turn out anything like you’d want.” 

Emile shrugged. “Can’t hurt to try, no?” He grinned again. “Round of drinks on me? I’m Emile, as you know. And you are…?”

“Feeling very sorry for you,” Marian replied. “I’ve also been looking for you.”

His face fell. “Oh, buggery! I know what this is about…” Rising from his seat, he began to pace, suddenly seeming a lot more sober. “I-I’m not a blood mage, all right? I, uh, started that rumor because…because I thought it would make me sound dangerous, and…suave.”

Marian groaned. She wasn’t sure what was more sad—that it was true, or that he would admit to it. 

“I’ve only told people in the tavern—and only women!” he insisted. His expression turned pleading. “You don’t understand. I’ve been in the Circle since I was six! Six! For twenty years I was locked up. Never had a real drink, or…or cooked something for myself. Never stood in the rain, or kissed a girl. I just wanted to live a little.”

Tears unexpectedly stung at Marian’s eyes. “No, I wouldn’t understand that at all,” she said sadly. A warm hand settled on her shoulder, and she looked back at Aveline in gratitude.

Emile sighed, his shoulders slumping in resignation. “If you’re going to kill me, do it. I’d rather die drunk.”

Marian shook her head. He wasn’t a blood mage, and he was terrible at talking to women, but he was definitely brave. She’d half-expected him to try to run. “The templars will find you eventually.”

“I…I’ll make you a deal, all right?” Emile asked hopefully. “Give me one night. Just…one night. One of the tavern girls, Nella, agreed to lie with me.” He gestured to a blonde woman at the bar that Marian recognized; she didn’t even need to look at Emile to believe his story. “I even paid for a room! Please…let me have this. You can take me back in chains after.”

It was a harmless request, and Marian could see that he was being honest—he would go willingly back to the Circle. She knew what it was like, longing for something you could never have—and here he had the opportunity to actually experience it. A part of her hated him for it, but a larger part thought it would be cruel to deny him. 

She had seen the templars follow her into the tavern, however; letting Emile out of her sight for so much as a moment would be taken in the worst way possible, and she didn’t doubt that the news would reach Meredith long before Emile made it back to the Circle. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That wouldn’t be wise.”

Emile’s face crumbled, but he didn’t offer any more argument. “All right, then. I will go with you—take me back to the Circle.”

“Actually,” Marian said, her eyes singling out the pair of templars in the corner. “I think I’ll introduce you to my friends over there.” 

The templars looked startled as Marian approached; clearly they had no idea how bad they were at this whole undercover stalking thing. 

“Good sers,” Marian greeted with an impish smirk. “Emile here has agreed to surrender and return to the Circle. I trust that you can get him there in one piece?” 

They glanced warily at one another, clearly unsure. “I can send a couple of my guardsmen along,” Aveline offered, pinning them with a hard stare. “If you’re worried about any danger.” 

It was clear that was the last thing they wanted. “No need for that—” one of them began.

“Oh, I insist,” Marian said, clapping a hand on the templar’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t want any harm to come to Kirkwall’s finest defenders.” 

In the end, they had little choice; they took Emile into custody, and grudgingly accepted the escort Aveline sent with them. When they were gone, Aveline turned back to Marian with a raised eyebrow. “Kirkwall’s finest defenders?” she said with mock affront. “I should be insulted.” 

Marian hardly noticed Aveline speaking. When the templars had exited the tavern with Emile in tow, someone else had entered—someone she’d never expected to see again.

“Isabela.”


	3. Chapter 3

Balls. She should have known it would be impossible to slip into Kirkwall quietly, without Hawke knowing she was there. Luck never did seem to be on her side when Hawke was involved. 

“Hawke,” Isabela said, trying to pretend her pulse wasn’t suddenly racing. “Fancy meeting you here. I didn’t think this was the sort of place champions spent their time.” 

She’d heard rumors of the Champion of Kirkwall, circulated over the years; the news had spread like wildfire, and each port had held an even more fantastical version of the tale. Isabela had just assumed the “Champion” bit was Varric’s doing—it was the sort of heroic title he’d put in one of his stories. It had been a shock, then, to sail into Kirkwall only to be met with a giant statue of Hawke herself standing proudly at the docks. 

Hawke offered a crooked, nervous smile. “Well, they do when they’re on the job,” she said with a shrug. “And anyway, Varric would never forgive me if I didn’t visit from time to time.”

Speaking of Varric, he’d somehow managed to disappear in the last few seconds—as had Aveline. Of all the times for those two to start minding their own sodding business. 

“Kirkwall still got you running errands for every noble that can’t wipe their own arse?” Isabela asked dryly, brushing past Hawke to take a seat at the bar. Wherever this conversation was going to go, she had a feeling she’d need a drink or ten.

“Oh, even better,” Hawke replied, leaning against the corner of the bar. “Now I get to run errands for the Knight-Commander herself,” she said with mock excitement. 

Isabela chuckled, gesturing to Corff to bring her a drink. “At least you’re moving up in the world.”

Hawke’s answering laugh was a bit more subdued. Isabela tensed as silence stretched between them. The tumbler of whiskey Corff set down in front of her barely had a chance to touch the bar before it was raised to her lips. 

“I didn’t expect to see you back here,” Hawke finally admitted, picking at a knot in the wood. She was so damned quiet and unsure—it made Isabela feel like an idiot for feeling the same way. They couldn’t _both_ be awkward. 

“Well, I still don’t have a ship,” Isabela offered lamely. The last thing she wanted to do was admit to Hawke the real reason she came back—especially when being near Hawke caused that reason to flare up so strongly. It _had_ to be Hawke’s magic that was doing this, because Isabela was not the sort to get all nervous and fluttery over a person—especially not one she’d never even had sex with.

“I’d buy you one,” Hawke said softly. She looked up, a bittersweet smirk tugging at her lips. “If I thought you’d take it.” 

Isabela shifted uncomfortably. “At least you’re not a complete idiot,” she said, knocking back the mug Corff had just refilled. “I’m perfectly capable of paying my own way.” 

“With stolen coin,” Hawke teased. Then she sobered. “It wouldn’t be charity, Isabela. I owe you a lot more than that.”

“Please,” Isabela scoffed, deliberately misinterpreting Hawke’s intent. “You would have handled the Arishok just fine without me there to complicate things.

Hawke raised an eyebrow knowingly. “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “But you did save a lot of lives by coming back, whether you like it or not. It never would have ended with something as clean as a duel if he’d still thought I was the thief.” 

Isabela rolled her eyes, fidgeting with her mug. “It was my mess that put those lives at risk in the first place,” she countered. “Besides, it’s not like I came back intending to save anyone.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Hawke peered up at her. “Why did you?” 

“I thought I could get the relic back,” Isabela replied sourly. “I had a bear of a time trying to track the damn thing—most of my contacts seemed to have moved on to someone with deeper pockets.” She glanced pointedly at Hawke, who at least had the decency to look sheepish. “Sam’s body was still bleeding out when I found him. With the whole city gone to shit, I figured there was only one place you’d be headed. I hoped to catch you before you put the damn thing back in Qunari hands.”

“I would have given it to you,” Hawke said softly. When Isabela chanced a look up, those blue eyes were full of guilt. “That’s the only reason I was tracking it down in the first place, when you…when you couldn’t be.” 

Well shit. Isabela should have known the conversation would have landed here. “Well, I was too late,” she said, motioning to Corff for another refill. 

“But you still came in and owned up to it,” Hawke said gently. “Why did you?”

“It’s like I said back then,” Isabela said defensively. “I went to a lot of work to steal that stupid book. I couldn’t have you taking credit for it—I’ve got a reputation to uphold.” 

Hawke just smiled in that hauntingly familiar way, like she knew Isabela was lying—and worse, knew what the truth was. Isabela was stubborn, though—she wasn’t about to admit to Hawke how terrified she’d been when the Arishok’s blade had sliced into Hawke’s flesh, or how she’d wanted almost desperately to run to Hawke after it was all over, to make sure she was all right. She hadn’t liked the feeling then, and it hadn’t grown any easier to cope with over the past three years. 

“I’m sorry.” Hawke said quietly, her voice wavering. “For…for what happened to you. I never got a chance to tell you before.” 

Isabela’s throat felt thick all of a sudden, and she knocked back another drink to loosen it up. Hawke _had_ apologized to her, more times than Isabela could count, but that had been before Merrill set everything right. Hawke didn’t need to know just how much she remembered. “Don’t sweat it,” she said with a halfhearted chuckle. “It all worked out in the end, right?” 

“I suppose,” Hawke agreed weakly.

There was a brief silence as Isabela turned her next question over in her mind. “You know, since you brought it up,” she began, fixing her eyes on the empty mug in front of her. “There’s something I never did quite understand. You could have had anything you wanted—I literally couldn’t refuse.” She looked up at Hawke, narrowing her eyes in confusion. “But you didn’t take it.”

Hawke shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been what I wanted,” she said simply, sadness shading her features. “It wasn’t you.”

Oh, for—Andraste’s tits, she just _had_ to ask. Isabela tapped her mug on the bar a little more forcefully than necessary, catching Corff’s eye and gesturing for another refill.

“I’m not naive, Isabela,” Hawke said, noticing her tension. “I knew from the start that it could never happen—but you asked.”

Isabela sighed. “Look, I…I can’t promise things will go back to the way they were. I don’t even know how long I’ll be in town.” Inwardly, Isabela cursed herself for even wanting to make the offer, but Hawke had gone out of her way to be good to her in the past. “But if you need my help with anything, you’ve got it.”

Hawke’s smile lit up her face, and Isabela drained her mug again to drown the butterflies that had somehow taken up residence in her stomach. She needed to find Merrill and get answers—and fast.

***

Merrill’s jubilation over her best friend’s return was tempered by her confusion at Isabela’s request. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking,” she admitted apologetically.

“You were…in my head,” Isabela tried to explain. “Somehow you got in there and got rid of whatever Hawke’s power did to me, but I…I don’t think you got it all.”

“You think Hawke’s magic is still working on you?” Merrill asked, eyes widening. Was that possible?

“I don’t know,” Isabela said, frustrated. “I-I feel it sometimes, like something pulling me back to her, wanting to be near her. It’s not normal.” She scowled.

“Well, I suppose it’s possible,” Merrill said. “I still don’t know a lot about Hawke’s powers.” It was fascinating, really; if she didn’t spend most of her time trying to fix the Eluvian, she’d probably be pestering Hawke with a thousand questions about it.

Isabela picked at the worn wood of Merrill’s table, her brow furrowed. “Can you…check?” 

Merrill hesitated, contemplating Isabela’s request. The last time Merrill had tried anything like this, she’d ended up bedridden for weeks. She would gladly do it again to put Isabela’s mind at ease, but she knew Hawke would be angry with her if she put herself at risk like that. 

Still, there was no harm in taking a look, right? She’d only gotten into trouble last time by putting too much energy into trying to change things, and she wouldn’t need to use the Shurkia this time. 

“I can try,” Merrill said hopefully.

***

Merrill found herself on the shore this time, looking out at the same three-masted ship swaying gently on the waves. The ocean was a vivid blue, clear enough to see the sand sloping down as the water got deeper. The sand beneath her bare feet was like powder, soft and nearly white from the sun. The sky was a brilliant blue, vast and cloudless. There were flashes of red here and there—bright tropical fish darting to and fro in the water, a rose blooming improbably on the shore near the mouth of the cave—but the color seemed more natural this time, less harsh. It looked like it belonged.

She tried to think of what it could mean; Hawke still had a presence here, but did that mean her power did as well? 

There was no way to tell from out here, she decided. Venturing further into the cave, she saw familiar veins of light twisting and branching along the walls. Blue and gold twined with the white of new sails and the deep, rich brown of freshly oiled leather. Unlike last time, Merrill felt Isabela’s presence all around her, strong and vibrant. 

Paths that were blocked last time had been cleared—not all of them, but a few. Some remained only partially obstructed, rocks stacking halfway to the ceiling rather than closing them off completely. Luckily, Merrill was able to follow the veins of light back to the alcove she’d found before. 

The crystal glowed with an almost desperate brightness, pulsing with prismatic light. Inside the gem, small strands of red teased at the swirls of other colors, looping around the very heart of the crystal but not tightening, not controlling like they had the last time. 

Merrill was pretty sure she’d seen enough. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and focused on releasing the magic that had brought her here. When she opened them again, Isabela was looking at her expectantly.

“I’m sorry, Isabela,” Merrill said. “Or not. I mean, it could be good news, I suppose. It’s usually a happy sort of thing, and—”

“Kitten, calm down,” Isabela said, her usually fond smile laced with tension. “What did you find?”

“Well, you were right, in a way,” Merrill said slowly. “Hawke is still in there, but not the way you think.” She was torn between a giddy excitement and a profound sadness—she wanted her friends to find love, but Hawke had explained why that couldn’t happen for her. Creators, this was complicated. 

“What are you trying to say?” Isabela asked warily.

Merrill bit her lip. “Whatever feelings you still have for Hawke,” she said nervously, “they don’t have anything to do with her magic.”

As it sunk in, Isabela sighed, dropping her head into her hands. “Shit.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Jeven.” Aveline sneered at the name, accepting the glass Marian handed her. “Just when you think you’ve managed to put the past behind you, it comes back and bites you in the arse.” 

“Tell me about it,” Marian replied, sitting across from Aveline with a sympathetic sigh. 

Aveline took a modest sip of her scotch, humming her approval as she swallowed. “It’s good,” she said, impressed.

“I wouldn’t know any better.” Marian shrugged. The bottle had been a gift from one of her many admirers—or rather, one of the many nobles who wanted something from her. It had been stuffed in a storage cupboard with all of the other lavish gifts she received on an almost daily basis, but this seemed as good an occasion as any to break it out, even if she could only watch Aveline enjoy it. “At least we put a stop to his ridiculous slander,” she said with a smirk. “Imagine, you going easy on any of your men—especially Donnic. He’s probably more afraid of you than all the rest of your guards put together.” 

“Very funny.” Aveline narrowed her eyes. “You can’t argue the results, though. The guard is in the best shape it’s been in for years—certainly better than when that lying weasel was in charge.”

Marian was about to congratulate her friend on a job well done when a knock on the door interrupted her. 

“Who would visit at this hour?” Aveline set her glass down on a side table, eyeing the door suspiciously.

“You’ve got me,” Marian said, frowning at the door. Another knock, sharp and impatient. Marian rolled her eyes, rising from her seat. “Whoever that is,” she called out as she approached the door, “it’ll have to wait until morning. I really can’t—” Her voice cut off abruptly, and she blinked dumbly at who the door had swung open to reveal. “Isabela.” She narrowed her eyes. “Since when do you knock?”

Isabela shrugged. “Thought I’d give it a try,” she said, restlessly shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I’m always open to new experiences.” 

Marian smirked, opening the door wider to usher Isabela in. “And was it everything you dreamed it would be?” 

“Not nearly as exciting as picking locks or scaling walls,” Isabela cracked as she stepped into the foyer. There was something off about her; she seemed distracted, and her signature smirk was nervous, unsettled.

“What’s on your mind?” Marian asked gently as she closed the door.

There was a troubled look on Isabela’s face as she whirled around. “Castillon’s in town,” she breathed out all at once, “and I’m not waiting around for him to stick a knife in my vitals.” She hesitated. “I’ve got to get him before he gets me…but it would be stupid to go after him on my own. I could use some backup.”

“Of course,” Marian replied quickly. “Whatever you need.” 

Isabela laughed softly, then shook her head. “He’s holed up somewhere in Kirkwall—I haven’t been able to find him. I do know where Velasco is, however—that’s his right hand. We just have to make him tell us where Castillon is.” She paused, frowning. “Somehow.”

“What half-arsed scheme are you dragging Hawke into now, whore?” Aveline had risen from her own seat and was leaning in the doorway of the foyer, her arms crossed sternly over her chest.

“Contrary to what you might think, I can be serious from time to time,” Isabela shot back. “If Castillon finds me before I find him, I’m as good as dead.” 

“I won’t let that happen, Isabela,” Marian said firmly, resisting the urge to step closer, to lay a comforting hand on Isabela’s arm. It had become habit, those years ago when Isabela was confessed, to reassure her with soothing touches and gentle words—but those things wouldn’t be welcome anymore. She sighed. “Your plan could use some work, though.” 

“Well, I’d considered challenging Velasco to a riddle game and making ‘where’s your boss?’ one of the riddles.” Isabela frowned. “But it’s not the most foolproof thing I’ve ever come up with.” 

“If it’s you Castillon’s after, why don’t we just hand you over to this right-hand man?” Aveline suggested, with only a hint of antagonism in her voice. “Seems like the first place he’d take you is exactly where you want to go.” 

“Right to Castillon.” Isabela pondered that for a second. “You know, Big Girl, you might be onto something.” She raised a hand to her lips, nibbling at her thumbnail as she thought. “Hawke hands me over to Velasco, I leave a trail to follow…that could work.” Her gaze fell on Marian and she chuckled. “Except for one tiny problem—Hawke’s a terrible liar.” 

Marian opened her mouth to defend herself, but quickly snapped it back shut. Isabela was right. Still, there had to be some way to make it work. With so much on the line, surely she could manage to pull off a brief deception—she owed Isabela a lot more than this. “It would only be for a few minutes,” she said, trying to sound more confident than she was. “And Velasco doesn’t know me—it’ll be a lot harder for him to know if I’m telling the truth or not. Besides, I’m handing him the one thing guaranteed to get him in good with his boss—who would argue a thing like that?”

“Velasco would,” Isabela said, raising an eyebrow. “But if you’re sure…”

“I am. I can do this,” Marian insisted. Her brow tightened. “Although…it’s not very believable, is it? Me just walking in with you and handing you over. We’ll need to tie you up or—” Heat flushed her cheeks at the lurid smirk that pulled at Isabela’s lips at the suggestion. “—or something,” she finished in a mumble. 

“Well, I’m not letting you go alone,” Aveline said. “Two of us dragging her in looks a lot more authentic.”

“Oh come on,” Isabela scoffed. “Everyone in the Free Marches knows of the virtuous Captain of the Kirkwall Guard. You’d never turn me over to Castillon when you could have me locked behind bars for all eternity instead.” 

Aveline scowled. “What do you suggest, then?” 

“Fenris,” Marian offered. “I’m sure he’d be glad to help, and he’s a lot better at bluffing than I am.” 

“Not to mention he’s definitely strong enough to keep me restrained,” Isabela drawled, her voice dropping to a low, appreciative rumble.

Marian’s blush intensified. “Sounds like we’ve got a plan then.”

“Right,” Isabela agreed. “Let’s go recruit Fenris and get down to the brothel.” At Aveline’s glare, she clarified. “That’s where Velasco’s been spending his nights, Big Girl. Relax. Too much tension and you’ll pull a muscle at the wrong time, and then what will poor Donnic do?” 

Aveline shook her head, fighting between a smile and a scowl as she brushed past them to the front door. “I’ll wait outside the Rose, and help Hawke follow your trail,” she grumbled.

Isabela pressed a hand to her chest, pretending to be touched. “Aww, Aveline, I didn’t know you cared.”

***

As Marian had predicted, Fenris was more than happy to assist. The four of them approached the brothel, leaving Aveline outside in the shadows of the Red Lantern district. At the door, Isabela hesitated, turning to Marian with a wary look.

“Are you sure you’re up to this? If you’re not, now would be the time to say so.” 

Marian nodded. “I’ll be fine. I just have to pretend to hate you,” she offered with a halfhearted smile. “How hard could that be?” 

There was something in Isabela’s eyes then, all of a sudden—a softness and depth of feeling that Marian hadn’t seen since Isabela was confessed. Breathing in sharply, Marian shook her head. It was just the dim light playing tricks on her, that was all.

“All right, let’s get on with it,” Isabela said briskly, turning to Fenris. “You ready to hold me down?” she asked, waggling an eyebrow. “It’s been years.”

Fenris chuckled. “As I recall, it was you doing the holding.” 

A flash of jealousy burned through Marian at the implication. She choked it down, chiding herself; just because she couldn’t be with Isabela—not that Isabela would even want such a thing anymore—shouldn’t mean that no one could.

***

“What—” The man pulled away from the whore he’d hired as Marian pushed open the door to his room. The whore looked back and forth between him and Marian before she apparently decided the coin wasn’t worth the trouble and ducked out of his arms. “Get back here, you—” He groaned as his entertainment slipped out the door. “Skittish bitch. I hope you have a good reason for interrupting my private time,” he growled, pinning Marian with angry black eyes.

“Velasco, I presume?” Marian said with a smirk. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She took his sneer as a response in the affirmative. “I brought you a new plaything,” she told him as Fenris and Isabela entered. She hoped she was just imagining the tremor in her voice. “She’s much less timid.”

“Wha—are you insane?” Isabela exclaimed angrily. She backed toward the door, only to be caught by Fenris’s iron grip. The glare she shot Marian could have melted iron. “You backstabbing little shit,” she said, struggling against Fenris. “This wasn’t the plan! We were supposed to be coming here to kill him!”

Marian shrugged, trying to keep her breathing even. “Plans change.”

“Castillon will be pleased.” Velasco stepped toward Isabela, reaching out to caress her cheek. Marian’s hands twitched with the urge to smack his dirty fingers away; she closed them into fists. “He’s been looking for Isabela for some time.” His eyes slid over to Marian as his hand drifted down to trace the top of Isabela’s necklace. “He would be considerably less pleased with whatever you planned to do to him,” he said conversationally, clamping his hand firmly under Isabela’s jaw. “He does not like being double-crossed.” 

The blood froze in Marian’s veins. She had been a fool to think she could pull this off. He had guards outside; Isabela had pointed them out, where they were mingling with the whores, but she’d assured Marian that one word from Velasco and they would all jump to his aid. She had to find some way out of this, preferably one that still got them to Castillon.

“It was a lovely performance,” Velasco continued, giving Marian a patronizing smirk. “Isabela always was so good at playing pretend.” His free hand drifted down the side of Isabela’s waist, and Isabela smacked it away; Fenris had released her the moment their ruse was uncovered, but with the guards outside they were both hesitant to attack. “But the time for games is over.” Velasco’s expression hardened, and his other hand tightened at Isabela’s throat. 

Marian reacted on instinct as he opened his mouth to call for his guards, her hand closing around the knife in her belt and swiftly bringing it up to Velasco’s neck. “You don’t want to do that,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Don’t kill him,” Isabela grunted, prying his hand off of her throat. “He can’t tell us where Castillon is if he’s dead.”

Velasco laughed. “I will do much better than tell you,” he said. “I will bring you to him. Castillon will be quite impressed with my prize. Political prisoners are not usually his style, but the Champion of Kirkwall is bound to fetch a good price. The elf looks quite capable as well.”

“More capable than you know,” Fenris growled, clenching his fists.

“You can only bring us in if you call your guards in to capture us,” Marian pointed out, pressing the edge of her knife a little harder against his throat. “And the second you try that, I’ll slit your throat.”

Instead of looking nervous, Velasco just laughed again. “Ah, but you cannot kill me, or you will not find Castillon. Quite a bind we are in, yes?”

Still, he didn’t call out; he clearly wasn’t totally convinced of his words. Marian’s free hand was clenched into a fist, so tight she could feel it throbbing in time with her pulse. It was more than blood that flowed there—it was also power. There was still a way to get what they wanted. 

She glanced between Isabela and Fenris. They already knew of her power, so there was no reason to be wary of using it in front of them—except that all she could think of was the last time she had used her power in Isabela’s presence, and the devastating consequences.

Velasco seemed to take her hesitance as confirmation that she wasn’t going to hurt him. He drew a breath to call out, and Marian had no more time to think or dwell on the past; her hand replaced the blade, clamping around his neck with bruising force, and she loosed her power into him. She stepped back shakily as he fell to his knees at her feet. 

“Mistress, how may I serve you?” 

“That’s what we’re going to figure out,” Marian said, forcing herself to look up and meet Isabela’s eyes. “Any ideas?”

Isabela looked unsettled in a way that had little to do with their plan falling to pieces. She gave her head a little toss, folding her arms over her chest almost protectively. “I thought that was supposed to be some big secret,” she said, nodding toward Velasco.

Marian followed her gaze, then quickly glanced up to make sure the door was still closed. “It still is,” she said with an uneasy shrug. “He won’t tell anyone.” 

“And what happens when Castillon wonders about the sudden change in his most trusted man?” Isabela challenged, canting her hips. She clearly wasn’t happy with Marian’s decision, though it was harder to pin down the reason why—it was starting to seem a lot more complicated than discomfort with Marian’s power. 

“I thought we were going to kill him,” Marian said slowly. “What does it matter?”

Isabela’s eyes darted away, avoiding Marian’s searching gaze. “I…hoped we could avoid that part,” she admitted grudgingly.

Narrowing her eyes, Marian asked softly, “What’s this really about, Isabela?”

“I…” Isabela fumbled for a moment, looking everywhere but at Marian. “Oh, fine,” she finally said with a huff. “I hate it when you do that, you know, it’s downright creepy.” Marian cracked a small smile; it _would_ be her ability to discern lies that disturbed Isabela more than anything else. “I really do want to get Castillon off my back,” Isabela insisted. “That’s the most important thing.”

“But?” Marian prompted. 

Isabela rolled her eyes. “But I saw his ship in the harbor,” she confessed. “She’s splendid, and I want her.” The low, sensual heat of her words sent shivers down Marian’s spine; only Isabela could sound so turned on talking about a ship. “If I can kill two birds with one stone,” she finished with a shrug, “all the better.” 

Marian frowned. “And you can’t just kill him and take it?” 

“You don’t just kill a man and take his ship,” Isabela scoffed, sounding almost offended. “That’s crude and amateurish. How would he tell everyone how I bested him if he’s dead?”

So it was about reputation, then. Marian wanted to be irritated, but she couldn’t begrudge Isabela the desire for some small bit of pride. She sighed, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “We’ll figure something out,” she said, looking back to the man kneeling at her feet as she pondered. “Velasco?”

“Yes, Mistress?” 

Marian suppressed a shudder at the blind devotion in his voice. “Where were you planning to take Isabela?”

“Castillon has a warehouse at the docks,” he replied with a smile, listing off an address. “I was going to send word to him to meet me there.”

“Good,” Marian said with a nod. “You’re still going to do that.” 

“Hawke,” Isabela cut in warily, “is that such a good idea?”

“It’ll be fine,” Marian assured her. “We already know where the warehouse is, so we can follow far enough behind that we shouldn’t raise anyone’s suspicions. Velasco will tell his guards to wait outside; the security of those warehouses is terrible—I’m sure we can find a side door to slip in through. We’ll meet up and wait for Castillon together.”

Isabela narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “And what happens when he gets there?”

“I…haven’t figured that part out yet,” Marian lied. A plan had formed in her mind, but she wasn’t sure if Isabela would approve—she didn’t necessarily like it herself. “Let’s just get there first, shall we?”

“You’re a shit liar,” Isabela reminded her. She sighed in resignation. “But I don’t see what other choice we’ve got.”

Marian nodded, turning back to Velasco. “Stand up,” she ordered. He quickly obeyed. “Now, this is important, Velasco,” she said seriously. He looked back at her with a single-minded focus. “You can’t let on to any of your men what’s happened to you. You’ve got to act like nothing’s changed.”

Velasco nodded confidently. “Anything for you, Mistress.” 

Isabela caught her eyes uneasily. “Is there anything I should know about…well, about dealing with this?” She gestured to Velasco.

“Just…try not to engage him much,” Marian offered with an apologetic shrug. “If you can, avoid talking to him altogether.”

“Great,” Isabela groaned. “Sit down and shut up. I’m _so_ good at that.” 

Marian chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll manage.” She turned to Velasco. “You should gather your men and get going. We’ll be along in a while.” 

“Yes, Mistress,” he replied with a nod, moving to follow her instructions.

“Oh, and Velasco?” Marian called out as a thought occurred to her. Velasco turned. “If Castillon tries to lay a finger on Isabela before we get there,” she said grimly, “kill him.”

***

So far, the plan had gone off without a hitch. As Marian had predicted, they’d been able to sneak into Castillon’s warehouse via a seldom-used side door, and now it was just a matter of waiting for his arrival.

“Why is Castillon in Kirkwall, anyway?” Isabela asked, leaning against a wooden support. “I know he’s been after my blood for years, but that can’t be the only reason.” 

Velasco looked to Marian for approval before answering. “He is meeting with some business contacts—he wants to expand his slavery operations into the Free Marches.”

“Not on my watch,” Aveline huffed, her eyes narrowing.

“We would be doing a service to far more than just Isabela by killing him,” Fenris said with a scowl. 

Isabela opened her mouth to protest, but Marian beat her to it. “We’re not going to kill him, Fenris,” she said calmly. She glanced between him and Isabela. “And he’s not going free, either.”

Before anyone could question Marian further on her plan, the sound of footsteps made them all fall silent. Marian nodded to Velasco, who took his place beside the door. The tension was thick as they waited; the quiet sound of their breathing mingled with the crashing of waves against the private dock, providing accompaniment for the sharp staccato of Castillon’s approaching footsteps. 

Finally the doorknob turned, the door creaking open; Castillon entered, pausing for a moment when his eyes fell on a very smug, very unrestrained Isabela. He started to step back, but Velasco was already behind him, swinging an arm around to press a knife to his throat.

Castillon swallowed, laughing nervously as the situation registered. “And Velasco told me you were all tied up, a lovely present just waiting to be opened,” he said, his eyes dark and cold as they bored into Isabela. “Clearly he is not as loyal as I thought.”

“He’s very loyal,” Marian corrected, stepping up beside Isabela. “Just not to you.”

His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “Ah, the Champion of Kirkwall,” he said as recognition set in. “How much coin did you have to offer to turn my most trusted employee against me?”

Marian shook her head, a smirk playing at her lips. “None at all.”

“Is that so?” Castillon raised an eyebrow. “Velasco does not usually prefer his women to have a backbone—at least, not when he cannot break them of it.” 

“I didn’t offer that either,” Marian curled her lip in disgust at the thought. 

“Well then, I confess, I am at a loss.” Castillon said through gritted teeth. 

Marian’s chest was tight with apprehension as she stepped closer to him. “Allow me to enlighten you.”

Isabela’s eyes went wide as she realized Marian’s intentions. “Hawke—” 

“Don’t worry, Isabela,” Marian said. “I know what I’m doing.”

Isabela sighed. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

Castillon’s brow tightened in confusion as Marian slipped her hand around his throat, just under the blade of Velasco’s dagger. She glanced over Castillon’s shoulder and nodded to Velasco. “You can let go now.”

Velasco did as instructed, lowering his knife and stepping back; Castillon tried to take advantage of the opportunity to escape, but Marian’s power only required a fraction of a second to take hold. For the second time today, a man fell to his knees at her feet, gazing up at her in utter devotion.

“Command me, Mistress.”

Marian took a breath to steady herself as she tried to remember what she’d gone over in her head on the way here. “First things first,” she said, glancing over at Isabela. “You’re going to give Isabela your ship. You’ll tell your crew—and anyone who asks—how Isabela bested you in single combat, and only spared your life because you were pathetic enough to beg for it.”

Isabela’s eyebrows shot up. “Someone’s picked up quite the flair for the dramatic,” she remarked.

“It’s all that time around Varric,” Marian offered with a nervous grin. “I could tone it down, if you think it’s too much.”

“I didn’t say _that_ ,” Isabela replied with a smirk.

Turning back to Castillon, Marian continued. “You’re also going to give Aveline here the names of whatever contacts you were here in Kirkwall to meet, as well as any other contacts you have in the slaving business elsewhere.”

Castillon nodded. “Of course.”

“Lastly,” Marian said, “you will leave Kirkwall, and never return. Velasco, you’ll go with him. The two of you will dedicate the rest of your lives to fighting slavery in any way you can—whether it’s by freeing slaves, preventing their capture in the first place, or helping those freed make new lives for themselves.” She turned to Isabela. “Does that work for you?”

“Well enough.” Isabela shrugged. “It’s almost poetic, actually—I kicked Castillon’s arse so hard he became a changed man.” She smirked as she looked at her former associates. “I’ve got to admit I enjoy the sight of them begging at your feet like a pair of hungry puppies.” 

Marian chuckled. “Oh, that reminds me,” she said, turning back to the confessed men. “Neither of you can ever let on what’s happened to you. My name must never pass your lips, unless someone else brings it up first—and then, only speak of me as though you have heard the stories, nothing more.” 

Both men nodded their understanding. Marian felt both relieved and apprehensive; this was the best possible outcome she could have envisioned, but she was hardly comfortable with the idea of these two men being forever bound to her will—and forever beyond her reach. She’d be glad not to have to see their adoring looks all the time, but her secret seemed to be getting further beyond her control every day. It was only a matter of time before the wrong person found out—and what would she do then?


	5. Chapter 5

Isabela huffed in frustration, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she stared at the door. Andraste’s tits, she’d never thought something so simple as knocking could be so bloody intimidating. 

Of course, it could have been the particular door she was staring at, or what she intended to do when it opened. She was not a cowardly woman by any means—a little self-serving at times, but not cowardly—and compared to some of the things she’d faced in her lifetime, a bit of conversation should hardly be daunting. She was a flaming pirate captain, damn it—and she even had a ship again to prove it. 

Which just brought her back to the reason she was so bloody nervous. Balls.

Drawing a deep breath—and chiding herself for being such a sodding coward—Isabela quickly raised her hand and knocked on the door. No going back now.

Her stomach was tied into knots more solid and complex than she’d ever learned as a sailor, and her blood was roaring in her ears like a tidal wave at sea. It seemed to take an eternity for the latch on the door to click—and when it did, Isabela had to fight not to jump at the sound.

“Isabela.” Hawke blinked. A weary smirk tugged at her lips. “This knocking thing is getting to be a habit.”

“Well, I—” Isabela stopped mid-sentence, taking in Hawke’s mussed hair and rumpled house robes. “Shit. You were sleeping, weren’t you? I’ll come back.”

Hawke’s fingers brushed her wrist as she was turning to go, and her breath nearly caught at the contact. “It’s all right,” Hawke said. “Come in. I couldn’t sleep anyway.”

Isabela stepped into the foyer while Hawke closed the door, then followed her into the front room. The fire had burned low, and Hawke gestured for Isabela to have a seat as she went to stoke it back to life. 

“Has Castillon finished up his business, then?” Hawke asked, coming to sit in the chair opposite. 

“He and Velasco are booking passage to Antiva as we speak,” Isabela replied. In the brighter light, Isabela could see the fatigue lining Hawke’s face, and the guilt darkening her eyes. “You don’t like doing that, do you?” she asked hesitantly. “That…thing you do.” Confession. It sounded so bloody harmless, like going to the Chantry to be absolved of your sins—not like losing every bit of yourself in someone else. 

Hawke’s lips pressed together as she looked down at her hands. “It can be overwhelming,” she admitted softly, her voice wavering. “Just one touch, one tiny fraction of a second, and all of a sudden you’re completely responsible for another person. They’ll never be who they were again, so you have to tell them what you want them to be.”

Silence settled between them, tense and heavy. “I made it back all right,” Isabela finally pointed out, forcing a smirk to try to lighten the mood. 

Surprise shone bright in Hawke’s eyes before sinking back down into regret. She opened her mouth, and Isabela was sure if she gave Hawke one more moment the blasted woman was going to apologize again.

“You know,” Isabela sighed, irritation edging her voice, “this whole ‘woe is me’ guilt trip you’ve got going on has got to stop. It was an accident,” she said firmly, then shrugged as she leaned back in her chair. “If anything, it was as much my fault as it was yours. I’m the one who wouldn’t listen when Lady Manhands told me to get down.” 

Hawke laughed weakly, raising an eyebrow. “When have you ever done anything Aveline asked you to?”

Well, she had a point there. Isabela shook her head, chuckling to cover her nerves. She hadn’t quite expected the conversation to turn this way so fast—not that more time would have put her any more at ease. “I…remember what you said, you know,” she said softly, looking down at the carpet. “Back then. Just before Merrill did her little magic trick.”

“Oh,” Hawke breathed. “I-I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

“That would have been far too easy on you,” Isabela said with a shaky laugh. “I want you to know that…I appreciate it,” she admitted, forcing herself to look up at Hawke. Balls, and there were the tears, glistening wet in Hawke’s eyes. She’d expected it, really, but actually being faced with an emotional Hawke was a completely different thing. It felt like her chest was getting tighter even as her heart pounded so hard she thought it might break right out. “I never thought a person like you could even exist. Anyone else would have loved the opportunity to make me do their bidding, but you…you fought it every step of the way.”

“I would never ask you to do anything you didn’t want,” Hawke replied passionately. “I lo—” She stopped herself, fumbled. “I like the person you are.”

Even with all the nerves and tension, Isabela had to smile at the obvious slip. “I do remember _everything_ you said, you know.” She chuckled nervously. Her breath was shaking, her palms were sweaty—her palms _never_ got sweaty when she was nervous; it would make holding a dagger pretty damned difficult. It was embarrassing—but then that was the point, wasn’t it? Hawke wouldn’t judge her for it, had never judged her for anything; she’d just accepted Isabela as she was, and inexplicably… _loved_ her for it. Her throat convulsed even at the thought of the word, and she shifted her eyes back down to her hands. She couldn’t look at Hawke and say this at the same time. “I always thought that love was about control,” she said. “That I’d…I’d be giving something up if I let myself feel it—giving up who I was. Now…with you, I-I’m not so sure.”

Of all the possible reactions Isabela had considered, she’d never expected to look up and see the look of utter desperation on Hawke’s face. Tears were spilling over her cheeks, her chin was trembling—it was like watching Hawke’s heart break right in front of her.

“Balls, I wasn’t trying to make you cry,” Isabela said. “I thought you’d…be happy, or hit me, or something.” 

Hawke drew a wet, shaky breath and tried to smile. “I am happy,” she said, sniffling. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear those words from you, Isabela, but I-I can’t.” 

Can’t. That flaming word again. Isabela would be perfectly happy to never hear that word again in her life. “Why not?” she asked, wincing at how desperate her voice sounded.

“What I did to you…” Hawke started, wrapping her arms around herself. “My power, it-it’s in me, always. If I loosen my grip on it, even just a little bit—if I get distracted, or careless, or caught up in—” Her cheeks flushed a deeper red, and her eyes were a little darker as she glanced up at Isabela. “—in a moment of passion…you’d be lost again.”

“Oh.” The word fell from Isabela’s lips, barely more than a breath. “There are ways to get around that, you know,” she said, smirking suggestively to cover the pleading in her voice. She was well-versed in all the many and varied ways to enjoy another person—surely there were things they could do that wouldn’t put her at risk. 

“That wouldn’t be fair to you,” Hawke said with a sad smile. “You deserve someone who can give you everything.”

Isabela shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I don’t know about ‘deserve’…” She looked down at her hands, twisting anxiously in her lap, only looking back up when Hawke took a breath to speak again.

“Even if we tried those…other ways,” Hawke said, a shy sort of smile at the edges of her mouth. Her eyes flashed with a desire as strong as any Isabela had ever seen, but then she swallowed and they turned sad again. “All it would take is one slip, one misjudgment. Push just a little bit too far, even once, and—”

“I get the idea,” Isabela cut her off, blinking. The tightening in her chest was suddenly a lot less fluttering and nervous and a lot more like being crushed. For the first time in over a decade—since those first few weeks with her dearly departed husband—she felt tears pricking at her eyes.

“I’m sorry.” The words hardly came close to describing the depth of regret and desolation in Hawke’s voice. She reached across the space between them, resting a tentative hand on Isabela’s arm.

Isabela shrugged it off. “Don’t sweat it,” she said, forcing a casual tone as she tried to breathe around the anchor weighing down her chest. “Things happen, right?” She knew Hawke wouldn’t be fooled by the smirk she forced onto her lips, but she did it anyway. 

“Isabela—”

“I, uh…I should go,” Isabela said quickly, pushing off against the arms of the chair to rise to her feet. “I’ve got some things to get done on the ship. You know how it is.”

She was almost surprised that her legs managed to carry her to the door. Her hand lingered on the latch for a long moment; Hawke’s stilted breaths and sharp sniffles seemed to be tugging her back, but she knew if she turned around that something in her would break, and all of the booze and sex in the world wouldn’t be able to fix it. With one last labored breath, she opened the door and slipped out into the night.

***

Aveline wasn’t the kind of person to laze about all day in bed, by any means. A few extra minutes of rest might feel good, but it could also be the few minutes that made the difference between someone else’s life or death. She’d never been one to sleep in before, and even now that she was married to Donnic, she rarely indulged.

Still, it was a rare morning that she and her husband were both home, and it was still early enough. After being up half the night dealing with all that Castillon business, Aveline figured she was entitled to be just a tiny bit lazy. Donnic’s arms were warm and solid around her, his heart beating steadily under her ear as her head lay flat against his chest. It was the kind of easy comfort she had never thought to have again, after Wesley, but life surprised her sometimes.

Well, life and Hawke. She tried not to let a day go by without silently thanking the young woman for everything she’d given her. Without Hawke, Aveline might never have made it to Kirkwall in the first place, might never have joined the guard, let alone become captain, and she certainly wouldn’t have been able to face up to her feelings for Donnic and manage not to make a complete mess out of courting him. She had worked her arse off for all of those things, to be sure—she would never go so far as to diminish her own efforts—but everything good she had in her life, she owed to Hawke in some way. 

Which was why, when Aveline dragged herself out of her husband’s warm embrace, threw on a robe, and trudged to the front door, only to be met with the tear-stained face of her friend, she didn’t think twice about dragging her inside and into a hug. 

“Flames, Hawke, what’s happened?” Aveline asked, stroking soothingly at Hawke’s back.

Hawke trembled as she clung to her. “I-Isabela,” she managed to force out.

“Shit,” Aveline swore, squeezing tighter. “What did the poxy tart do now, take the ship you got for her and sail off without so much as a goodbye?”

A quiet sob escaped Hawke’s throat as she pulled back to meet Aveline’s eyes. She looked completely broken. “Worse,” she choked out. 

“Is everything all right, love? Who was at the door?” Donnic walked out of the bedroom, rubbing at his bleary eyes. His eyes landed on Hawke, and that was all the answer he needed. “I’ll go put the kettle on for some tea,” he said gently. 

Aveline gave her husband a grateful smile, then turned her attention back to Hawke. “Come on,” she urged, pulling Hawke over to the couch. “Sit down. We’ll have some tea and you can tell me all about it.”

***

Merrill stared up at the Eluvian from where she sat on the floor, knees tucked up against her chest. All those years she’d worked on it, wasted. Her clan didn’t want her help, didn’t want _her_ —even if she managed to succeed now, if she found some way to finish it without the help of the spirit, they wouldn’t let her close enough to tell them. It had all been for them, for her people, and all that had come of it was pain and death.

The Keeper was dead, and it was her fault. She’d always been a little afraid of Keeper Marethari, of the stern confidence that made her slight frame stand taller than the tallest tree in the Brecilian forest. She’d been a mother, and a teacher, and a leader, and now…now she was gone.

The door rattled as someone entered, and Merrill wiped half-heartedly at the tear tracks on her cheeks. Quiet, even footsteps approached, barely audible, until Merrill could feel a presence behind her. She smelled leather and spice, and almost smiled. 

“Isabela,” she said, her voice hoarse and weak.

A warm hand settled on her shoulder as Isabela squatted beside her. “How are you feeling, Kitten?”

Merrill shrugged. “I’m not sure how to feel,” she answered. “All this time I thought I was helping, that I was doing something important. I guess I was wrong.” 

Isabela shifted to sit on the floor next to her, sliding her arm around Merrill’s thin shoulders. “You can’t live your life for other people,” she said gently. “Maybe now you can figure out what it is that will make _you_ happy.” 

“You make it sound so easy.” Merrill sniffled. “Everyone has something—you’ve got your ship now, Varric has his stories…Aveline has Donnic _and_ the guard. And Hawke, well it’s easy for her to help people. Everyone wants her help with something, and she just does it because she’s that good of a person.” 

Something flickered across Isabela’s face, and she looked down at the floor. “She is pretty unique,” she said with a quiet chuckle.

“All I had was my clan, and the Eluvian.” Tears stung at Merrill’s eyes anew. “Now I don’t even have those things anymore.” 

“Bullshit,” Isabela said, squeezing Merrill’s shoulders. “You’ve got Varric, and Hawke,” she pointed out, “and you’ve got me. Tell you what: once I get everything squared with this ship, you can hit the high seas with me. It’ll be one adventure after another.”

Merrill smiled. “Thank you, Isabela, but I don’t know if that’s the best idea.” She shuddered, remembering the awful voyage here from Ferelden. “I’m not cut out for sailing. It was very nice of you to offer, though.”

Isabela rolled her eyes. “I’ve told you, Kitten, you’ll be fine as long as you stay on deck. I’ll take you out one of these days for a test run to prove it.”

“All right,” Merrill conceded. It _was_ an exciting idea, being on the crew of a pirate ship, looking for buried treasure. Far more exciting than living here in this squalid alienage. “Won’t you miss Hawke, though? If we go away?”

The arm around her shoulders tensed. “Why would I?”

“I know you care for her,” Merrill pointed out, glancing up at Isabela. “I saw it, remember?”

“I—” Isabela pulled her arm away, fidgeting with the seams of her boots. “It doesn’t matter,” she said softly. “It’s not going to happen.” Her brow tightened. “Unless…” she peered up at Merrill. “Do you suppose there’s a way to…I don’t know, protect me from that freaky power of hers? Some sort of magical immunity?”

So, Hawke had finally told her. Merrill sighed and bit her lip; she didn’t want to disappoint Isabela, but she didn’t have any good answers.

“I’m not pining away or anything,” Isabela amended quickly. “I’ve just been trying to get into her pants for years. It’s a matter of pride at this point.”

“I’m sorry, Isabela,” Merrill said regretfully. “From what Hawke has told me about her power, about the way it works…it’s not _magic_ so much as it’s love, in its purest form. I don’t think there’s any way around that—I mean, can you be immune to love?”

Isabela chuckled almost bitterly. “I thought I was.”

Merrill’s heart ached for her friend. She’d thought about this before, from time to time, and there was only one possibility that had ever sounded feasible. “I suppose—I mean, I’m not sure, and I don’t know nearly enough about it, but I think…there might be a way to overcome it.”

“How?” Isabela asked. She kept her expression casually interested, but her eyes flashed with guarded hope.

“Well, as I said, it comes from love,” Merrill said carefully. “She touches someone with her power, and they fall madly in love with her, ready to do whatever she asks of them. If…if there was one thing that could overcome that, I think it would be…well, if you already felt that way about her.”

Isabela’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she said, discouraged. “Well, that’s…something.” 

“There might be something else,” Merrill said, trying to sound hopeful. “I just don’t know what it might be. I’ll keep looking, though.”

“What are you looking for? Maybe I can help.” 

Isabela’s head snapped around so quick Merrill was half-afraid it would fly off of her shoulders. “Hawke,” she said nervously. “Been there long?” 

Hawke shook her head, leaning against the doorway to Merrill’s bedroom. “Just got here,” she said, never quite meeting Isabela’s gaze. “I wanted to see how Merrill was doing.”

“Right.” Isabela rose to her feet, looking down at Merrill. “I’ll let you two talk. Take care, Kitten.” 

She brushed out past Hawke, and Merrill could see both of them tense at the brief contact. Her heart sank even further. They were her friends, and they were both hurting; she wished more than anything right now that she could find some way to help them. 

“So what does Isabela have you searching for?” Hawke asked casually, walking in to sit on the edge of Merrill’s bed.

“Oh, it’s-it’s nothing,” Merrill said, her fingers twisting together anxiously where they rested against her shins.

Hawke raised an eyebrow. “Merrill, you should know by now that you can’t lie to me.”

Merrill sighed. “I shouldn’t say,” she said evasively. “I mean I probably won’t find anything, and I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up.”

“What hopes?” Hawke’s curiosity was piqued. “Hopes about what?”

“I…oh, all right, but you can’t tell her I told you,” Merrill said worriedly. “Isabela…wanted me to find some way to make her immune. To your power, I mean.” 

Hawke drew a shaky breath, her eyes widening. “Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know,” Merrill admitted. “I don’t think so, really, but I don’t know very much about it. There might be something.” 

Closing her eyes, Hawke breathed in steadily. “Something,” she said sadly. She was silent for a long, tense moment, and then she opened her eyes again. “What about…Quentin,” she sneered at the name, “he used those tools to take the power from other confessors, to make himself immune. Is there some way to-to turn off my power? To take it away?”

Merrill’s mouth opened in shock. “You mean for good? To just get rid of it?” Hawke nodded. “I don’t know, Hawke,” Merrill said. “It’s in your blood, in your very soul. I don’t think I could erase just that one part of you—not without erasing everything else.” 

Hawke sighed, her shoulders drooping. “I didn’t really think so,” she admitted. “Anyway, I really did come here to check on you. How are you holding up?”

“Better,” Merrill replied. “Isabela’s always good at cheering me up. She invited me to go with her, when she gets her ship ready to sail.” 

“That’s good,” Hawke said with a strained smile. “It’s only a matter of time before all of this mage/templar business combusts; it’ll be good for you to be far away from here when it does.”


	6. Chapter 6

“No.” 

Anders gaped at her, anger flashing in his eyes. “What—how can you just—” He ran a hand through his unkempt hair, tugging on it a little as he met her gaze again. “I thought you’d be happy about this. I have a chance to make it right, to fix what I did with Justice all those years ago. It was never supposed to happen, and I see that now.”

Marian raised an eyebrow. “You and I both know that’s not what this is about.”

“Of course it is,” Anders scoffed. “What else—”

“Don’t lie to me, Anders,” Marian said wearily. “It won’t work, and it only makes me less inclined to help you.”

Anders sighed. “What if I told you what it was really for?” he asked grudgingly. “What if I told you it could mean freedom for mages everywhere? Would you help me then?”

“If you were willing to lie to me about it in the first place,” Marian said, shaking her head, “then I’m sure I don’t want to know anything about it. I want the mages freed as much as you, believe me—but attacking the Chantry and the templars isn’t the way to go about it.”

The quiet scowl on his face told her she’d hit close enough to home to know that she was right; she didn’t want any part in this. “Fine,” he spat, backing away from her with a bitter shrug. “Just ignore the mages’ plight. Let your sister rot in the Gallows.”

“My sister is exactly why I can’t have anything to do with this,” Marian shot back angrily. “Meredith won’t hesitate to use her as leverage against me—she’s already done it. I won’t give her more ammunition, or more reason to punish Bethany.”

He shook his head. “Just go,” he sneered, gesturing to the door of his clinic. “Go back to your cozy little estate and keep pretending like you’re making a difference in Kirkwall. I hope it’s not too lonely there, all by yourself.”

For a moment, Marian just stared in disbelief. She couldn’t believe he’d stoop that low. The look on his face said that he didn’t quite believe it himself; he’d probably only meant to make a dig about Bethany, but it stung nonetheless—enough that she didn’t even bother with a parting shot. She just turned and stormed out of the clinic, slamming the rickety door behind her.

As angry as she was, she was also more concerned than she’d like. Anders was up to something—something big. It couldn’t mean anything good for Kirkwall—or for her.

***

“We just got word they pulled some girl from the Circle. A…sister, I think.”

Isabela tensed at the flash of rage in Hawke’s eyes. She glanced toward Aveline and Varric, who both had the same idea as she did; if this started to go south, they needed to find cover or they’d all be Hawke’s slaves. 

“Just tell me where they went,” Hawke said, her voice dangerously calm. “I can’t waste any time.”

The timid templar boy—Keran, Hawke had said his name was—shook under the intensity of Hawke’s gaze. “They left for the ruins on the Wounded Coast,” he said. “We have a kind of base there.”

Hawke nodded, pushing past him toward the door of the warehouse. Keran turned and called after her.

“They…they should have just talked to you,” he said earnestly. “I know you’re a reasonable person. You have to see how dangerous Meredith is. Thrask says she’ll cause open war with the mages if she stays in charge. We _have_ to take her down.”

Tensing, Hawke turned around. “I’m not exactly her biggest fan either,” she said bitingly. “But strangely I find myself more concerned about the people who would kidnap my family to blackmail me into keeping their secret.” 

“Please,” Keran begged. “I never wanted this to happen—I had no idea you were the one they were talking about. But you know the threat that Meredith poses. Please, just…talk to Thrask. He’s a good man. He never meant to harm anyone but Meredith, I promise you.”

“I just want to make sure my sister’s safe,” Hawke assured him, her voice losing a little of its edge. “I’ll worry about Thrask and Meredith later.”

“Thank you,” he said, relieved. “I’m sorry this happened. I’ll go to my sister—try to wait this out. I don’t think I can serve the templars while Meredith is still in charge.”

Hawke wasn’t paying attention to his words, though—not anymore. She was storming out of the door onto the docks, leaving the rest of them to try to keep up.

“We’ll find her, Hawke,” Aveline said, slipping an arm around Hawke’s shoulders. Hawke leaned against Aveline, resting her head on a pauldron briefly before pulling away to continue walking. 

Isabela felt a pang of…something, watching the closeness the two shared. Jealousy? No, that’d be ridiculous; it wasn’t like they were even involved that way—Hawke and her, _or_ Hawke and Aveline. Still…well, perhaps it was a different kind of jealousy. Part of her wanted to be the one Hawke could turn to, could lean on like that. 

She wanted to laugh at herself. This was stupid; it had been stupid from the start, to think she could be any good for someone like Hawke. It still disturbed her that she found herself wanting to be. 

Her introspection was cut short as they made their way up into Hightown, only to be waylaid by a frantic-looking templar.

“Champion—thank the Maker!” Knight-Captain Cullen exclaimed, panic bleeding into his voice. “Please tell me Bethany is with you.”

“No, she’s not,” Hawke replied coldly, pushing past him. “But we’re going to get her back.”

“I’ll come with you,” Cullen offered quickly. Hawke stopped, turning to him in confusion. He gave her a pleading look. “If…if she’s run away, Meredith will want her killed or made Tranquil. Her tolerance for apostates ran out years ago—if she ever had any.”

“She didn’t run, she was _kidnapped_ ,” Hawke said through her teeth, stepping up to him. “Under your watch. How do I know you’re not in on this? That you’re not trying to distract me from finding her?”

His eyes widened. “I would never—please, I just want to make sure she’s safe. She’s not like other mages I’ve known—she’s good, and strong.” Isabela smirked; it looked like someone had a little crush on the younger Hawke. “She doesn’t deserve the fate that would befall her if another templar found her.”

Hawke considered his words for a moment, before finally giving him a terse nod. “Keep up, then. We’ve got to get to her before they decide kidnapping isn’t convincing enough.”

***

Marian’s heart jumped into her throat when she saw her sister bound and gagged, propped up against a crumbling stone wall. She looked unhurt, and thankfully less scared than Marian would have expected; it spoke well of the possibility of resolving this peacefully.

A group of templars and mages stood between Marian and her sister. She curled her fingers into fists, hoping against hope that this wouldn’t end badly. Cullen was standing just a few paces away, and while he was as susceptible to her power as anyone else, it would be awfully difficult to explain the disappearance of the Knight-Captain of the templars. 

Thrask stepped forward from the group, an apologetic look on his face. “I suppose it was too much to hope that you wouldn’t have come here,” he said. His gaze lingered on Cullen before he shifted it back to her. “Though I can’t understand why you side with Meredith now. You showed me we could stand up to her.” He chuckled a bit to himself. “I wasn’t sure about you at first. I was sure you’d actually killed those mages I’d asked you to save, until most of them were brought in alive mere weeks later. When I realized you risked your life lying to protect them…Please, Champion,” he entreated. “I have nothing but respect for you. It’s Meredith we must see gone.”

Marian shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I have no love for Meredith,” she said bitterly. “But putting my sister in danger is no way to convince me of your good intentions.”

He sighed. “I apologize,” he said. “I should have realized you would recognize the threat Meredith poses.” Thrask nodded to the pair of templars bracketing Bethany. “Let the hostage go,” he told them before turning back to Marian. “Please know that we would never have harmed her. Truthfully, she is in far more danger in the Circle.”

Bethany rushed forward once she was released, flinging herself into Marian’s waiting arms. “It’s good to know you’re still looking out for me,” she said with a smile.

“Always,” Marian replied, pulling back to study Bethany’s face. She frowned. “You could have fought back,” she said softly. 

“I know.” Bethany nodded. “But it would have been…complicated. And I knew they weren’t going to hurt me. They’re good people, with good intent—some of them are just a little misguided.” 

Marian glanced over at Cullen, who was looking on with a little more interest than she was comfortable with. She turned back, meeting Bethany’s eyes. “You don’t have to go back, you know.”

“Yes I do,” Bethany said with a resigned smile. “They’ve still got my phylactery—and I can do good in there, Sister. The children look up to me. I can guide them, teach them to be proud of themselves and their power.” 

“What about Meredith?” Marian’s brow furrowed. “Thrask is right—you’re in danger there. More than any of them know.” 

“I’ll have to leave that problem for you to sort out,” Bethany said apologetically. “The situation is getting further out of hand every day. Things are going to come to a head soon—and when they do, I’ll be able to help you more by organizing the mages in the Circle than I could by making a run for it now. Don’t worry,” she teased, nudging Marian’s shoulder. “I can look after myself. And I’m not alone in there.”

As if on cue, Cullen’s patience finally ran out and he approached. “Enchanter Bethany,” he greeted stiffly, though his eyes were full of warmth and relief. “It is good to see you safe.” 

Bethany’s smile brightened when she looked at him. “Not even a scratch,” she said, pulling away from Marian and gesturing down the length of herself. Cullen’s cheeks flushed a little pink. “I’m ready to go back to my cell, jailer,” she teased. 

Cullen shook his head, chuckling a little. “That’s not funny. You could have been seriously hurt.” He looked away from her, and his eyes hardened as he scanned the group of rebels. 

Thrask cleared his throat, approaching Cullen hesitantly. “Knight-Captain, we would never harm an innocent to achieve our ends. It gains us nothing to become Meredith. But surely you cannot be blind to her madness. Things need to change.”

“You’re right,” Cullen agreed. “She has grown more severe in the past few years. I myself fear what may come of it—but this is not the way, Thrask.”

“Perhaps,” Thrask said hopefully, “you could help us to find a better one?”

After a moment, Cullen gave a little nod. “We shall see. For now, we need to get Bethany back to the Circle, as well as any other mages or templars who wish to return. I assure you all,” he said, addressing the group, “I will see to it that you come to no harm.”

Marian backed away, watching helplessly as Cullen began sorting out the templars and mages. Bethany may have been convinced that she would be safe, but Marian couldn’t stop herself from worrying—her sister was all the family she had left, after all.

“She’ll be all right,” Isabela murmured, stepping up next to her. “You Hawke women are fighters.” 

Warmth flooded Marian’s chest as she turned to meet Isabela’s eyes. She wanted to slide her hands around Isabela’s waist, to press close to her and draw courage from the pirate’s strength. “Meredith won’t know what hit her,” she said with a smirk, folding her arms over her chest instead. Someday she might find her way back to being content with Isabela’s friendship, but not today—not when she could still see her own desire reflected in those amber eyes with an intensity that made her tremble.

***

First Enchanter Orsino chuckled to himself as Marian finished filling him in on the plot he’d asked her to investigate. “I have a sudden deep regret I interfered,” he said dryly. “You know, I was half-convinced Meredith had engineered the whole thing, to trick me into incriminating myself.”

Marian shifted uneasily on her feet. “She wasn’t involved this time,” she said. “But it wouldn’t have surprised me if she was. Something needs to be done about her.” 

Orsino’s eyes widened, flicking between Marian and the door to his office. “Speak softly, friend,” he urged. “There is nowhere safe to say those words. But be assured, you are not the only one thinking them.”

“Thinking won’t be enough for much longer,” Marian said. With this latest conspiracy and Anders’s secretive activities, not to mention Meredith’s ever-increasing paranoia, something had to give—and soon.

“I will be glad to have you on our side when that day comes, Champion,” Orsino said. 

Marian sighed. “I just hope it’ll be enough.”


	7. Chapter 7

Marian watched in horror as the Chantry exploded in a brilliant column of light. Flaming debris fell all around them, illuminating the crumbling walls of Lowtown. She’d known that Anders was planning something, but she never could have imagined _this_. She had been in that building countless times over the years, on one errand or another—had seen the faithful gathered for services, the brothers and sisters and priests…how many of them were there now? Was Sebastian there, the man who had been so kind to her after her mother’s death? How many had just been slain by the action of one rogue apostate? She had no love for the Chantry or its teachings, and it had even less for her, but violence on this scale was never justified. 

Once the roar of the explosion died down, the silence was swallowed by voices—some frantic, some furious, some desperate. Marian couldn’t focus on any of them; her pulse was pounding in her ears at the thought of what surely must come next. 

Finally Knight-Commander Meredith’s voice rose above all the others. “The grand cleric has been slain by magic, the chantry destroyed. As Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, I hereby invoke the Right of Annulment. Every mage in the Circle is to be executed—immediately.”

The words settled like lead in Marian’s stomach. Her gaze shot to Bethany before anyone else, seeing her own fear reflected in her sister’s eyes. 

“The Circle didn’t even do this!” Orsino cried. “Champion, you can’t let her! Help us stop this madness!”

“Think carefully, Champion,” Meredith warned. “Stand with them and you share their fate.”

Marian wanted to laugh. “You say that as though you haven’t already condemned me as well. You know damn well I won’t let you kill my sister without a fight.” 

Meredith’s answering smile was both smug and grim. Her eyes bored into Marian’s for a second before she called out to her men. “Kill them all! I will rouse the rest of the Order!”

The Knight-Commander slipped away as the templars gathered in the square moved to attack. The battle was quick—Marian and her friends were more than a match for them, even without the help of Orsino and Bethany—and soon they were all panting for breath amidst a dozen bodies in shining silverite armor. 

“So it’s come to this,” Orsino said, his shoulders slumped in resignation. He turned to meet Marian’s gaze. “I don’t know if we can win this war, Champion…but thank you for standing with us.”

“It was the only choice I could make,” Marian said, sharing a glance with her sister. 

“I will leave your…friend for you to deal with,” Orsino said, casting a spiteful glance at Anders. “I must return to the Gallows. Meet me there as soon as you can.”

Anger burned hot in Marian’s veins as she approached the crate that Anders was seated on. “Do you realize what you’ve started here?” she asked accusingly. 

“There’s nothing you can say that I haven’t already said to myself,” he said calmly, bowing his head. “I took a spirit into my soul and changed myself forever to achieve this. This is the justice all mages have awaited.”

Marian scoffed. “So you start a massacre to prove a point? You’ve killed the very people you’re trying to save, as sure as if you swung the sword yourself.”

“It had to be done,” Anders insisted, looking up at her with a crazed passion in his eyes. “The people fear what we can do, but to use that fear to bludgeon us into submission is wrong—and they do it with our blessing!” He sighed. “And if I pay for that with my life…then I pay. Perhaps then Justice would at least be free.”

“That would be convenient for you, wouldn’t it?” Marian sneered. “Create all this chaos, kill those innocent people, start a war—and never have to face the damage you’ve done.” 

Anders shook his head. “The world needed to see,” he said stubbornly. “I only did what I had to do.”

“He wants to die,” Fenris sneered. “Kill him and be done with it.”

“And let him martyr himself for his cause, become a hero?” Marian said, turning to meet Fenris’s angry glare. “That’s not justice.” Grabbing Anders’s staff from where it lay discarded on the ground at his feet, Marian shoved it at him. “You’re going to do what you can to fix the mess you’ve made,” she said coldly. “Get up. You’re coming with us to the Gallows.”

Eyes wide, Anders took the staff, pushing himself to his feet. He hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I-I know you’re not doing this as a favor to me, but…thank you, for my life,” he said. “I’ll try not to make such a mess of it this time.”

Varric cleared his throat, looking around at the bodies all around them. “We’d better all get to the Gallows, and quick. It’s going to be quite a show.”

***

The Gallows loomed before them, across waters tinted red by the fires still raging across the city. Isabela wondered for probably the millionth time what in flames she was doing here. They’d been at the docks; she could have taken her ship and run, left Kirkwall to crumble into ash in her wake. It would have been the smart thing to do.

Her eyes fell on Hawke, standing quiet and tense at the bow of the small dinghy carrying them across the bay. There was her answer. The thought of leaving Hawke to face this alone was more unthinkable than following her into battle and likely dying at her side. Absurdly, she found herself fighting the urge to laugh. When Merrill had suggested that the only thing that could overcome Hawke’s power would be to already possess that level of devotion, Isabela had felt any hope she had of being with Hawke crash to the ground; she’d never commit herself so fully to another person, even if that person was Hawke.

Yet here she was. Isabela wasn’t a fool; she knew they probably didn’t stand a chance of coming out of this alive, but on the off chance they did…her stomach lurched, her chest fluttered at the thought of having a real shot with Hawke. She’d never expected to end up here, but now that she was, she couldn’t imagine any way forward without Hawke by her side. 

Now she just had to fight tooth and nail to make sure they got that chance.

***

The mood was tense inside the Gallows. Mages were all around, pacing like caged animals or slumping against the walls in defeat. Fear and resignation hung thick in the air, making it difficult to breathe. Marian had avoided talking with her friends about what was to come; it felt too much like goodbye, and she refused to give in that easily. If they did fail, it wouldn’t be because she lost hope before the battle even began.

Bethany approached quietly, resting against the wall beside her. Delicate fingers tangled with Marian’s own, squeezing tight. Marian didn’t need to look up to know that her sister didn’t share the desire to avoid goodbyes. 

“I know you’re trying to be strong,” Bethany said quietly, “to give us all hope that we’re going to win. But just in case—”

“Beth, don’t,” Marian pleaded, turning to meet her sister’s gaze.

“I have to,” Bethany choked out. “With Carver, and then Mother…I never got the chance to say goodbye. I don’t want that to happen again.” She drew a tremulous breath, squeezing Marian’s hand with an almost painful intensity. “If we…if we don’t make it…just know that I love you.” 

Tears pricked at Marian’s eyes as she pulled Bethany into her arms. “I love you too,” she said fiercely. “And we’re _going_ to make it. We have to.”

Bethany clung desperately, burying her face in Marian’s shirt. “You almost make me believe it,” she murmured. 

Marian stroked soothing circles into Bethany’s back, trying not to let her sister’s fear sway her. After all they’d been through, it couldn’t end like this.

“I…don’t mean to interrupt.” 

Pulling out of the embrace, Marian looked up to see Isabela standing awkwardly a few paces away, brow tight with an apprehension that had little to do with the upcoming battle. 

“Not to worry,” Bethany said, forcing a smile as she wiped at her eyes. “I was being silly, anyway. I’ll let you two talk.” 

Then it was just Marian and Isabela, and Marian was rather amused to find that Isabela seemed almost _more_ uncomfortable with it than she did. She had felt Isabela’s eyes burning into her, on the boat ride over; there was something on her mind, that much was certain, but Marian couldn’t begin to guess what it was. 

Isabela herself didn’t seem too sure—or at least, she was having a hard time putting it into words. She shifted anxiously from foot to foot as silence stretched between them, seeming to become more frustrated the longer it went on. Finally it was as if something snapped in her eyes; before Marian could even think to react, Isabela’s hands were cupping her face, tugging her forward into a bruising kiss. 

It was so tempting, the urge to just keep doing this. Isabela’s lips were as soft and agile as she remembered, pressing and tugging at her own with a frantic intensity. What could it hurt now, to take what comfort they could before they faced a battle that was almost sure to end in their deaths? 

Except it did hurt; it stabbed right to the core of Marian, to tease herself with just this taste of Isabela, knowing she would never have more. Marian broke away with a groan that was almost a sob, moisture welling in her eyes. “Isabela—”

“Hawke, I—” Isabela interrupted. There was something on the tip of her tongue, something she was desperate to voice, but she didn’t seem to know how. “I should—”

Before Isabela could finish, a loud crash echoed from outside, followed by screaming and the sounds of battle. Their time was up—battle was upon them.

The first wave of templars burst through the doors of the inner courtyard of the Gallows, falling on the them with a conviction born of fear. Swords clashed, spells flew, and the air around them sang with magic and adrenaline and blood. 

When it was all over, all that remained was Marian and her friends, and the First Enchanter. Orsino looked around at the bodies at their feet, and Marian could practically see any hope he’d possessed die.

“Look at it all,” he said mournfully. “Why don't they just drown us as infants? Why wait? Why give us the illusion of hope?”

Bethany stepped toward him, reaching to put a comforting hand on his arm. “First Enchanter, we need to—”

Orsino tore his arm away, looking up sharply with a renewed determination on his face. “I refuse to keep running. I won’t wait for her to kill me.”

There was something not right about the look in his eyes—a glint of madness, or desperation, or both. “What do you mean?” Marian asked warily. She flexed her hands, preparing to draw her weapons again if need be.

“All this time I’ve been fighting it,” Orsino said, laughing bitterly, “and look at where it’s gotten me. It’s time to give in.” He shook his head. “Quentin’s research was too evil, too dangerous, so I put it aside—”

“Quentin.” Marian’s voice turned to cold steel as she took a step toward him. “You _knew_?” 

“I’m sorry, Champion,” Orsino said, guilt shining along with the crazed fervor in his eyes. “I didn’t want Meredith to have any more ammunition against us. I couldn’t risk the Circle being connected to-to your kind.” 

Power began to pulse in Marian’s veins, clouding her vision with spots of red. She slammed her eyes shut, trying to contain the rage that was building within her.

Orsino continued to speak, heedless of the danger he was getting himself into. “I had hoped that his research could bring about a new generation of confessors,” he said. “A way for the mages to fight back and free themselves once and for all.”

Marian’s eyes snapped open, pinning him with an accusing glare. “So you covered for him, even knowing what he was? What he would do?” 

Bethany noticed Marian’s hands begin to shake and stepped forward. “Sister, try to hold on. There are more important battles still to fight.”

“ _He killed our mother!_ ” Marian screamed, clinging desperately to the remaining strands of her control. “Who knows how many others would have fallen prey to his insanity if I hadn’t stopped him—and all the while you knew, and did nothing about it?” 

“He was just one mage,” Orsino argued, growing more impassioned with every word. “But Meredith wouldn’t have stopped at punishing him. We all would have paid for his transgressions, just as we now face death for the crime committed by your own friend.” He laughed bitterly, gesturing wildly to the carnage around them. “We were always meant to end up here. There is no choice but the one Meredith has forced upon us.” He pulled a knife from his belt, holding the blade to his other hand. “Meredith expects blood magic? Then I will give it to her. Maker help us all.”

With a flick of his wrist, the knife opened up the palm of his hand. Scarlet blood dripped from the wound, quickly taking on a life of its own as it swirled around Orsino in a cloud of dark magic. The bodies around them began to twitch, but Marian was oblivious to everything but her own rage. 

The Con Dar had taken control.

***

Isabela’s eyes grew wide in shock. Fear pounded in her chest as she watched Hawke shake, and her breath caught in her throat when Hawke’s head snapped forward, intent on making Orsino pay. A part of her wanted to run, as far and as fast as she could—but another part, just as strong, refused to let her abandon Hawke.

Merrill was already at work summoning a wall of vines to protect them from Hawke’s power. Isabela watched as they tangled in front of her, blocking off her view of Hawke’s convulsing form. Her mind was racing; the thought of being lost again to Hawke’s power was almost enough to paralyze her where she stood, but with each moment that ticked by, she was more convinced that she _wouldn’t_ be lost. 

Balls. Thinking things through had never been Isabela’s strong point. Without a backward glance, she slipped through a rapidly closing gap in the vines, rushing to Hawke and catching her by the elbow. Hawke jerked around, her eyes dark and fathomless as she clamped a hand around Isabela’s throat. 

It took less than a second for her power to be released.


	8. Chapter 8

Marian shoved Isabela back, turning away before she could see the effects of her power. Her focus was on Orsino, and him alone. The First Enchanter stood in the center of a whirlwind of blood and magic. The bodies at their feet were starting to lift off of the ground, pulled toward Orsino by a power born of desperation. 

Marian didn’t care. She cared for nothing except making him pay for what he allowed to happen to her mother. Anders had been afraid of losing himself to Vengeance—Marian _was_ vengeance, in its purest form. It took little more than a thought—a twitch of her hand—and Orsino froze in place, his eyes going black as he fell to his knees. The corpses he’d been summoning fell lifeless at his feet with no power to urge them farther. 

“Mistress—” he began, before his face contorted in pain. Whatever demon had been trying to possess him, it wasn’t happy with her power taking control of him before it got the chance. An agonized cry was pulled from his throat as he twisted and writhed in pain. 

A sneer curled Marian’s lip as she watched in silence. Let him suffer; he deserved it. He may not have held the knife that carved her mother into pieces, but he’d done nothing to stop her killer either—which made him just as responsible for her death. Her only complaint was that the end came far too quickly for Orsino. His body strained and twisted, trying to contain the power he’d conjured from the Fade, but the demon had already decided that he would not serve its purposes thus bound to Marian’s will. He screamed, a bestial, tortured sound, as his body was stretched taut; his screaming stopped abruptly, and Marian knew he was dead before he hit the ground in a boneless heap. 

With the target of her rage eliminated, Marian felt her senses begin to come back to her, even as her energy drained. The blood pounding in her ears ebbed, and the red haze dominating her vision receded as her head cleared. 

“Isabela!” Aveline’s voice was accompanied by hurried footsteps. The creaking of wood followed as Merrill dismissed her vines, then her worried murmurs joined in. Marian stiffened, horror climbing up her throat as she remembered what she’d done.

_Not again. Not Isabela. Maker, please, no—_

“I’m fine,” Isabela said impatiently. 

Marian gritted her teeth, tears stinging at her eyes as she stared blankly ahead. She couldn’t look back; she couldn’t see that look of blind devotion on Isabela’s face again. Her knees hit the ground, blood seeping into her pants, but she hardly noticed. The bodies littering the floor, the thick smell of blood in the air, none of it meant anything to her. Isabela was gone—again.

“Hawke.” Isabela’s voice sounded far away, nearly drowned out by the clamor of guilt and despair in Marian’s head. A hand fell to Marian’s shoulder, warm and sure, and Isabela repeated herself more insistently. “ _Hawke_.” 

Stomach churning, Marian forced herself to turn and look up. She wasn’t sure what to make of the sight that greeted her. There was a hint of uncertainty in Isabela’s eyes, but not enough to drown out a familiar hint of mischief. Her lips were curved into a gentler, more vulnerable version of her signature smirk. 

Taking hold of Isabela’s arm, Marian pulled herself to her feet, staring at Isabela in awe. She reached out to touch Isabela’s cheek. “You’re not confessed,” she breathed, not quite comprehending. Her power never failed—and she remembered with stark clarity how her power had surged out and into Isabela.

Isabela’s gaze flitted downward, before rising again to meet Marian’s head-on. “I…I had a hunch.”

The air vanished from Marian’s lungs, and her heart pounded in her throat; there was only one way that Isabela could have survived confession unscathed. “Isabela, you—”

When Marian failed to finish her sentence, Isabela rolled her eyes, bravado almost-but-not-quite concealing her vulnerability. “Balls, you’re not going to make me say it, are you?”

She didn’t need to. Marian could see it shining bright and sincere in amber eyes. She’d known that Isabela cared for her, but she’d never even let herself dream that those feelings would be strong enough to resist confession. “Maybe later,” she choked out with a watery laugh. Tears streamed openly down her face as she slid her hand back to tangle in Isabela’s hair. The salt from her tears mingled with the taste of Isabela’s mouth, and for several moments, Marian forgot that they were on the verge of a life-or-death battle in which their odds of winning were impossibly slim. The only thing that mattered was that Isabela _loved_ her.

The sound of a throat politely clearing urged them apart, and Marian huffed in irritation as she glared toward the offender. Bethany was beaming at them both, her eyes alight with happiness despite the dire situation they were all in. “Sorry to interrupt, Sister,” she teased. “But I don’t think the templars are going to wait for you two to finish before they break down the door.” 

Marian sighed; her sister was right. She turned back, her breath catching once again as she caught Isabela’s gaze. She didn’t want to let go, to let this moment end; a part of her was convinced that this had to be a dream, that Isabela would never feel this way about her. 

As though hearing her thoughts, Isabela smirked, squeezing gently at Marian’s hips. “Let’s go, Champion.” Her eyes darkened as she raked them deliberately down Marian’s body. “We’ll continue this later.” 

A shiver raced down Marian’s spine, clenching hot in her belly. “You keep looking at me like that, and it’ll be a wonder if I don’t run right into Meredith’s sword.” 

Fear flashed through Isabela’s eyes, so quickly that anyone else would have missed it. Her fingers gripped a little tighter at Marian’s hips before releasing. “Well, we can’t have that,” Isabela said with a smirk, reaching for her daggers. When she turned to head for the door of the chamber, Marian stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“We’ll get through this, Isabela.” Marian’s voice was steady, and brimming with passion. She’d never been more certain of anything in her life. They were going to win—they had to. Marian wouldn’t accept any other outcome, not when the cost of defeat was so high.

Isabela offered a tight smile and a shrug, flexing her hands around the hilts of her daggers. She wasn’t convinced, but that just meant Marian would have to prove it to her. 

There was a pounding at the doors, and the hinges creaked under the pressure. The battle would begin soon. Marian drew her own weapons, glancing around to see her friends and the rest of the mages do the same. Her gaze stuck on Bethany as something occurred to her. “You don’t seem at all surprised by this,” she said, raising an eyebrow as she tilted her head toward Isabela.

A mischievous smile pulled at Bethany’s lips. “I’ll tell you later,” she promised, fingers tightening around her staff as she prepared to fight.

Marian accepted the answer for now. There would be a later, after all—she would make sure of it.

***

By the time they’d fought their way to the gate leading out to the Gallows courtyard, Marian had lost some of her certainty. It wasn’t just templars they’d been fighting; demons, shades, even some of the very mages she was trying to defend had fallen to her blades.

They were nearing the end of the fight. The mages who had been fighting alongside them had all either fallen to the templars’ swords, succumbed to demons and become abominations, or been forced to stay behind to tend to their injuries. Marian and her friends were all that were left to stand against Meredith and her templar army. 

She could hear the Knight-Commander now, calling orders to her templars with a crisp efficiency that neatly concealed the madness Marian knew lurked beneath the surface. She glanced to her left, holding Isabela’s gaze one last time; she didn’t know when or if she’d get another chance. 

Isabela seemed to share her uncertainty; transferring both of her daggers to one hand, she tangled her newly-freed fingers in Marian’s hair and pulled her into a quick, desperate kiss. Marian clung to her hips, careful not to injure Isabela with her own blades. She tasted blood and sweat on Isabela’s lips.

When they parted, Isabela kept her hand at the back of Marian’s head, holding her gaze with an intensity that Marian had rarely seen. “I love you.” The words were soft, barely audible, but she said them with a ferocity that shook Marian to the core. “But if you die out there,” she choked a little on the words, and swallowed roughly, “I’ll never forgive you.”

Marian offered a weak smile. “I’ll just have to survive, then,” she cracked, her heart pounding with a combination of dread and anticipation. Forcing herself to pull away from Isabela, she turned and walked through the gate. 

Meredith saw their approach and met them halfway. She scowled, cold blue eyes appraising her and her friends. “And here we are, Champion, at long last.” On her lips, the title had always seemed an insult, but never had Marian heard such undisguised malice in Meredith’s voice. If she hadn’t been sure before, it was clear to Marian now that the Knight-Commander knew exactly what she was. 

“I’m surprised it took you so long,” Marian said with a wry smile, tightening her grip on her weapons. 

“You think you’re so clever,” Meredith sneered. “I’ve known about your little secret for years. You should be grateful I’ve let you live until now.” 

“Which I’m sure you did out of the goodness of your heart,” Marian shot back, savoring the flash of irritation in Meredith’s eyes. 

“My hands may have been tied before,” Meredith ground out distastefully, “but no longer. Elthina is dead, the fool, and once the people of Kirkwall learn what a twisted abomination you really are, they’ll thank me for doing them the favor of killing you.” 

“Knight-Commander.” Cullen stepped forward. He sounded surprised, but his eyes told a different story—he had expected this. “I thought we intended to arrest the Champion.” He glanced at Marian, then at Bethany, lingering before he returned his gaze to Meredith.

“You will do as I command, Cullen,” Meredith snapped. 

“No,” Cullen said defiantly, taking a step toward her. “I won’t let you harm them. They’ve done nothing wrong.” 

“Nothing wrong?” A cruel laugh escaped Meredith’s lips before a look of horror dawned on her face. Her eyes shot from Cullen to Bethany and back. “She’s gotten to you, hasn’t she? My own Knight-Captain, fallen prey to the corruption of a _confessor_!” 

Several of the templars stepped back at the word, glancing fearfully at Marian and her sister. Most drew their swords, preparing to attack on Meredith’s order. Meredith drew her own blade, smiling with crazed satisfaction at Marian’s gasp of shock. The sword glowed an unnatural shade of red as Meredith gripped it—a shade Marian had only ever seen once. 

“Recognize it, do you?” Meredith said, the eerie light twisting her features. “Pure lyrium, taken from the Deep Roads.” She ran a gauntleted hand over the blade. “The dwarf charged a great deal for his prize, but it will be more than worth it to wipe your kind from existence once and for all.” 

Marian tensed. Varric had told her how he’d been forced to shoot a crossbow bolt into his own brother’s heart to spare Bartrand the madness the idol had inspired in him. Perhaps Meredith herself wasn’t to blame for the extent of her fanaticism—not that it changed anything. Bartrand had been beyond saving—so was Meredith.

Isabela took a small step forward, just close enough that Marian could feel her presence. It bolstered what was left of Marian’s dwindling confidence, and she forced the arrogant smirk back onto her face. “That idol drove Bartrand mad, and he still failed in the end—just like you will.”

“We’ll see about that,” Meredith said with a grim smile. She looked over her shoulder, addressing her templars. “All of you, I want them dead!” 

Cullen stepped in front of Bethany, raising his sword menacingly at Meredith. “You’ll have to go through me.” 

To Marian’s shock, several more templars stepped out of formation, turning their blades on the Knight-Commander. Some she recognized, like Thrask and Keran, and others she’d only seen in passing. All of them were coming to her defense, and that of her sister. 

Meredith was just as thrown by it, but her surprise was overshadowed by disgust. “How many of my loyal templars have you twisted with your vile magic?” 

Marian arched an eyebrow. “What’s the matter, Meredith?” She took a step forward, drawing idle designs in the air with the point of her dagger. “Afraid you can’t stand against a few of your subordinates?” 

“Never!” Meredith replied, her eyes flashing with rage; for a moment, Marian was sure she saw a flicker of red pass through them. “I’ll kill you all if I have to—the Maker Himself will guide my hand!” Meredith stepped back, and the templars behind her backed away, looking as though they weren’t sure who to be more wary of. There was a loud crack as Meredith thrust the tip of her sword down into the ground. Stones split under the enchanted blade, and the sword’s glow intensified as Meredith folded her hands over the pommel, pressing her forehead to the back of one steel gauntlet. The Chant of Light sounded less like a prayer and more like a curse coming from the Knight-Commander’s lips. “Blessed are those who stand before the wicked and the corrupt,” Meredith recited, her voice growing in conviction with each word, “and _do. Not. Falter!_ ” 

Her head snapped up at the last word, and this time Marian was sure of the flash of red that lit the templar’s eyes. Gripping her daggers, Marian advanced carefully as Meredith raised her sword. The first blow was all too easy to anticipate—Marian blocked it with ease, the lyrium-enhanced blade shooting red sparks where it clashed against Marian’s dagger. A dissonant clang echoed throughout the courtyard.

It was enough to spur the rest of the square into action. As she pushed Meredith away, Marian’s peripheral vision caught the sight of her friends facing off against the templars still fighting on Meredith’s side. Only Isabela stayed nearby, fending off the templars that tried to charge at Marian—freeing Marian to attack Meredith in earnest. 

The Knight-Commander was no novice with a blade, and while the lyrium in her sword had twisted her mind, it had also augmented her already considerable skill. It was a challenge just trying to keep up with her, but Marian had something that Meredith, in her fanatical rage, could never understand: she had hope. A whole life waited for Marian, a life she’d never dared dream of, if only she could make it through this battle. 

It was her hope that gave Marian the strength to gain the upper hand; after blocking another in a series of countless swings, she kicked out at Meredith’s stomach, and the templar stumbled backward, falling to one knee. Rather than rise to her feet, she looked up at the sky, clutching her sword tightly.

“Maker, your servant begs you for the strength to defeat this evil!” As Meredith cried out to the heavens, her sword’s glow grew brighter, almost blinding. Marian stood frozen, watching wide-eyed as Meredith’s stooped form shot into the air, executing an inhuman back flip onto the landing of the stairs leading up to the Gallows. 

Meredith slammed her sword into the ground once more, causing it to shake as red flames shot up from the stone, racing around to enclose the square. A loud creaking sound screeched across the courtyard, echoing off of the walls around them. Marian chanced a look around, and her blood ran cold at the sight that greeted her. One of the enormous bronze guardian statues lining the square was coming to life, tearing away from the wall and making its way clumsily toward Marian and her companions.

The flames had formed a barrier between Meredith and the battlefield. Marian rushed at them, hoping to charge past the worst of the fire; it was like running into a solid stone wall, with the added effect of pain searing into her flesh. Stumbling back to recover, Marian stared up at Meredith, who was looking on with crazed amusement as the statue battered Marian’s friends. 

Marian watched in horror as that same red glow swelled from within Meredith, enveloping her in a bright aura of light. She pulled a knife from her belt and took aim at the Knight-Commander, hoping to disrupt the magic, but it bounced uselessly off of the barrier. Reluctantly, Marian turned away from Meredith, shifting her focus to defeating the statue. Maybe if they took away Meredith’s toy, she’d be forced to come back down and face them herself.

The statue, however, proved difficult to beat. It was solid metal, and blades were useless against it—at least until Bethany and Merrill added their elemental magic to everyone’s weapons. Eventually they managed to bring it to its knees, while holding off the templars that hadn’t recoiled from the statue in horror. 

“Enough!” Meredith bellowed. She vaulted off of the landing, coming down behind Marian and her companions. Marian whirled around, charging at Meredith, but she skidded to a halt when the templar began glowing again with that piercing red light. It swelled out from Meredith, bursting outward in a concussive force that knocked everyone around her back several feet. 

As Marian regained her equilibrium, she became aware of more dissonant creaking; the other guardian statue was coming alive, joined by the statues of tortured slaves that adorned the square in abundance. Her companions quickly found themselves embroiled in a vicious battle with both statues and templars.

In the center of the chaos stood Marian and the Knight-Commander. If Meredith had any more surprises up her sleeve, Marian wasn’t sure she’d be able to survive them. Her arms ached from countless swings of her daggers, and she was beginning to feel lightheaded from the constant surging of adrenaline. A glance around the square didn’t do much to lift her hopes; even without accounting for the statues’ size advantage, Marian and her friends were outnumbered. 

But she refused to give up. She blocked each swing of Meredith’s sword, ignoring the way it made her muscles scream in protest and made her vision blur. All she needed was an opening; one opportunity to slip under Meredith’s defenses and take her down. 

Meredith’s sword came down hard, and Marian barely caught it in the cross of her own blades. Her arms strained with the effort just to keep the sword away; there was no way she could push it back, not with Meredith’s super-human strength forcing it down. She glanced frantically from side to side, but her friends were still caught up in their own battles; they wouldn’t be coming to help her.

A vindictive smirk twisted Meredith’s lips as she looked down at Marian, already savoring her victory. “Give up, Champion,” she said mockingly. “You can never hope to defeat us all.”

Marian caught a flash of movement, and slowly a grin spread across her face even as her wrists began to tremble. “I don’t have to,” she replied, looking pointedly past Meredith, where Isabela was advancing with a smirk that was equal parts clever and dangerous. 

The Knight-Commander faltered, her attention darting away for a split-second to follow Marian’s gaze. It was all Marian needed. Meredith had scarcely begun to turn back around when Marian ducked to the side, coming up to clamp her hand around Meredith’s throat. 

Comprehension barely had the chance to dawn in Meredith’s eyes before they turned black. Marian gasped at the force with which her power rushed from her body, slamming into the Knight-Commander and bringing her to her knees. 

“Command me, Mistress.” The words sounded foreign in Meredith’s normally authoritative voice. The cold blue eyes that had pierced Marian with their disdain now widened imploringly. 

“Put a stop to this,” Marian panted, pulling her hand from Meredith’s throat to gesture toward the battle still raging.

Meredith’s sword clattered to the ground; the statues ceased their movement, leaving those battling them looking around in bewilderment. 

“Stand down!” Meredith ordered. The templars around the square looked to their Knight-Commander in confusion. When they saw her kneeling before Marian, they lowered their weapons and backed away. Some raced out of the courtyard as quickly as their legs would carry them, while others stared wide-eyed at the scene before them.

A choked gasp drew Marian’s attention back to Meredith. The templar was shaking violently, veins of bright red light cracking her skin. A cry of agony tore from her throat, cut off halfway through as the strange lyrium turned her flesh to stone. In moments, it was no longer a woman that knelt at Marian’s feet, but a twisted, grotesque statue. 

The courtyard fell silent. Marian’s pulse thundered in her ears as she glanced around, taking stock of who was still standing. Several templars still gripped their swords, though the weapons were pointed toward the ground; they watched Marian warily, but didn’t make any move to attack.

What happened now? Marian had been so focused on getting through the battle that she had no idea what would come after it. They couldn’t stay in Kirkwall; they may have defeated Meredith, but the Chantry would send more templars to investigate, and she knew better than to think they would be safe here when that happened. If not Kirkwall, though, then where? 

A hand pressed lightly against the small of her back, and Marian glanced up to meet Isabela’s eyes. Her heart skipped at the depth of emotion she saw there.

“Come on, sweet thing,” Isabela said, her smirk tinged with exhaustion. “Let’s get out of here.”

Marian smiled. “Is your ship ready to take to the high seas?”

“As long as you’re not put off by mustard-colored satin,” Isabela huffed. “I haven’t had a lot of time to finish redecorating.”

In all likelihood, Marian wouldn’t even notice the color scheme. “You’ll just have to distract me,” she said anyway; it was worth it to see the flash of desire in Isabela’s eyes. 

“That can definitely be arranged,” Isabela replied. Her fingers dragged around Marian’s hip as she moved so they were facing one another. Marian pulled her lower lip between her teeth, dropping her eyes down to Isabela’s mouth, and before she was even aware of it, she was leaning in closer.

“Maker, I’ll never be able to separate you two now,” Aveline complained, her voice tinged with exhaustion. Marian didn’t bother trying to fight the grin that stole onto her lips as she turned her head. Aveline had done her best to sound aggrieved, but Marian could see the genuine happiness shining in her eyes. “If we’re skipping town, you’ll need more than those tattered, blood-stained clothes. I’ll take Donnic by the estate. I’m still the Guard Captain—we should be able to get past any opposition. We’ll gather anything you might need, and make sure those dwarves get out all right.” 

“Aveline, you don’t have to come with us,” Marian said reluctantly. “You’ve made a good life for yourself here.”

“Don’t even try, Hawke,” Aveline replied. A smile touched her lips. “Family’s more important.”

Tears pricked at Marian’s eyes, and she blinked them away. She resisted the urge to pull Aveline into a hug; there would be time for that later, when they were safely away from Kirkwall. She offered a grateful smile instead.

“Speaking of family,” Isabela said, nodding past Aveline to where Bethany was staggering toward them, leaning heavily against Knight-Captain Cullen. 

“You know, that was almost fun,” Bethany joked, a weak smile tugging at her lips. She had no visible injuries; she must have used her power on one of the templars—no doubt one of the ones that now lay bleeding on the stones at their feet. 

Marian returned her sister’s smile, relieved to see that she’d made it through the battle intact. Her smile faded as she glanced around at the templars still remaining, several looking on with visible fear and contempt. “What will happen to the mages?” she asked worriedly, directing the question at Cullen. “They’re not safe here.”

“Thrask and Keran will lead them to safety,” Cullen replied, keeping his hand firmly at Bethany’s waist. “They’re in just as much danger, after standing up to Meredith.”

“I’ll go with them.” Anders stepped forward, glancing hesitantly at Marian. “I know a thing or two about dodging templars.”

Marian nodded, relieved that she wouldn’t have to make any more decisions regarding his fate. He would do his best to protect those mages, and hopefully the templars accompanying them would be enough to deter him from committing any more acts of terror. Anders turned and began to walk back toward the Gallows, joined by the templars that had rallied against Meredith.

“And what about you?” Marian asked, narrowing her eyes. Cullen still stood at her sister’s side, and his arm was wrapped around Bethany’s shoulders in a way that was a little more familiar than necessary.

“I’m coming with you,” he replied, his eyes daring her to argue.

Marian hesitated. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea…”

“I’m not leaving Bethany,” Cullen said defiantly. His expression softened as he looked over at Bethany, resting his free hand on her stomach. “Or our child.”

Marian’s attention shot back to her sister. “Beth, you didn’t—”

“He’s not confessed,” Bethany said quickly, her smile lighting up her face. She hadn’t had access to their mother’s journal, but Bethany must have found out about the exception to their powers some other way. 

“No wonder you weren’t surprised.” Marian chuckled. 

Bethany shrugged. “We can’t let you have all the fun, Sister.”

As she glanced at Isabela, Marian felt a grin stretch across her own face. Isabela responded with a smirk, one eyebrow arching suggestively. Heat suffused Marian’s body at the promise that look held. 

“Something tells me the fun is only just beginning.”


	9. Chapter 9

Marian’s muscles burned with fatigue. The calm that had settled over the Gallows after the battle had yet to spread to the city itself, and the docks had seen the worst of it; everyone wanted to get out of Kirkwall. Making their way through the crowd to Castillon’s private dock had been an adventure all on its own. 

They had made it, though. The battle was over, they’d survived, and just moments ago they had sailed past the twin statues that guarded Kirkwall’s harbor. They were heading to Llomerryn first, to stock up on supplies and recruit enough sailors to round out the crew. After that…well, one step at a time, as Isabela had said. 

As Isabela closed the door to the captain’s cabin behind her, Marian found her exhaustion fading fast. The look in those amber eyes was so intense, so _hungry_ , that Marian nearly forgot why she’d ever been afraid of this in the first place.

Warm hands slid over her waist, settling low on the back of her hips. Isabela leaned closer, close enough that her breath brushed hot and moist over Marian’s lips. “Never done this before, have you?”

Marian swallowed, wondering where all of the moisture in her throat had gone. “Only in my dreams,” she admitted breathlessly, sliding her palms up to rest at Isabela’s shoulders.

Isabela smirked, and a low, sultry chuckle escaped her throat. “Trust me,” she said, her lips barely glancing off of Marian’s. “Reality is much better.”

Talking proved far too difficult, and Marian surged forward, savoring the taste and feel of Isabela’s lips. It was made all the more delicious by the knowledge that she wouldn’t have to stop—that she could do this for as long as she wanted, and never have to worry about losing control.

Well, as long as Isabela would let her, anyhow. Soon the hands at the small of Marian’s back were in motion again, grasping at her hips, sliding down to cup firm flesh and pull her hard against Isabela’s body. Marian groaned, her own hands tugging at Isabela’s headscarf, tangling in dark hair. 

Marian had imagined this often over the years—so often it had driven her crazy at times—but she’d always pictured it differently. She’d imagined herself shy and tentative, Isabela patient and assured as she coaxed pleasure from every corner of her body. 

She should have known better. After years of longing, words like “tentative” or “patient” had no place here. Her body arched and ground against Isabela’s as she was backed toward the bed, nimble hands working at the buttons and laces holding her clothing to her. By the time she fell back against the sheets, she hardly noticed the hideous mustard color of them, too distracted by the sensation of satin against her bare skin. 

A sensation that paled in comparison to the feel of Isabela’s lips and tongue. Isabela was thorough, but driven by passion and need, and each kiss or nibble was that much more fervent. When Isabela’s tongue flicked out to tease at her hipbone, Marian’s hips jerked so hard she was momentarily afraid she might have hurt Isabela.

Isabela just chuckled, dragging the fingertips of one hand down Marian’s side and over her hip, pressing her down into the mattress as she dipped her head even lower. 

This…this was something Marian’s imagination could never have captured well enough: Isabela’s mouth hot and slick against her, Isabela’s hands pressing her thighs apart, the feel of cool satin clenched in her fingers. There was a tension building in her belly at an alarming pace, tightening every muscle in her body; it felt so good that she hardly noticed that she was still stiff from the earlier battle. 

She could feel her control slipping, her walls crashing down as Isabela increased her tempo. Desperately, Marian grabbed for Isabela’s head, dragging her back up to clash their mouths together. The taste of herself on Isabela’s tongue pulled a low moan from her throat as she pulled back just far enough to meet Isabela’s eyes. 

“I want to see you,” Marian gasped. She couldn’t put it into words—especially not when they were so hard to form at the moment—but she needed to watch Isabela when she finally let her restraint snap. 

Understanding glimmered in Isabela’s eyes, and she worked a hand between Marian’s legs to replace her mouth while the other pressed into the mattress beside them. Her breath came in hot pants, mingling with Marian’s as she pumped harder and faster, driving Marian over the edge into that abyss that she’d been so terrified of, for so long.

The closer she got, the harder Isabela pushed, as if the pirate were trying to speed past the part where Marian froze up and pulled away in fear. Marian had no intention of doing any such thing, though; she was clenching the sheets so tightly in her hands that her knuckles were white, and the throbbing in her blood was just as much fear as it was desire, but she didn’t try to stop. Isabela loved her; Marian’s power had rushed through her and found nothing to attach itself to, nothing to change, because she already loved Marian enough to do anything she asked. Marian clung to that knowledge as she let everything else fall away, trusting Isabela to catch her. 

And she did. Marian’s body shook with the force of her release, but Isabela’s arm was there to cling to, to steady her, and once the trembling began to subside and she opened her eyes, Isabela’s were there to anchor her as she caught her breath.

“Told you,” Isabela breathed with a smug grin. “Much better than a dream.”

Marian nodded with a sated smile, swallowing to moisten her throat. She hadn’t even been aware of making any noise, lost in sensation as she was, but her throat felt hoarse and dry from overuse. Isabela sat back on her heels, grabbing a canteen from the side table and handing it to her. Marian eyed it warily as she took it, fumbling with the cap and bringing it to her nose.

“It’s just water.” Isabela rolled her eyes. “Spoilsport.” 

Grinning, Marian tilted some of the cool liquid down her throat, gasping as she swallowed. When her thirst was slaked, she replaced the cap and reached out to drop the canteen back onto the table. She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, peering up at Isabela through her lashes.

Isabela chuckled, tilting forward until her hands rested on either side of Marian’s head. “What’s that look?” 

Marian attempted to shrug. “Just wondering if I get to return the favor,” she said, desire making her bold. 

“I might have to throw you overboard if you don’t,” Isabela shot back. When Marian bucked her hips, however, trying to reverse their positions, Isabela resisted. She took in Marian’s confused frown and sighed. “Fine,” she conceded, dropping onto her back beside Marian. “I’m _always_ on top, you know,” she said with a raised eyebrow. 

“I must be special, then,” Marian teased, moving to straddle Isabela’s hips.

Isabela pursed her lips, cocking her head to the side as she considered Marian. “You’re all right,” she said with a shrug. 

Laughing, Marian bent down to kiss Isabela again, trying to memorize how it felt to press against her, how Isabela’s hips arched up into her as she ground down aimlessly. 

“Hawke,” Isabela groaned, as Marian tugged the front of her bodice down to explore her breasts with hands and mouth. Marian looked up, quirking an eyebrow. “If you keep teasing me, I won’t be held liable for the consequences.”

Marian grinned, pride flushing her cheeks at being the cause of the need in Isabela’s voice. Sliding down, she settled between Isabela’s legs, hooking her fingers under the waistband of her smallclothes and tugging them off over those delicious thigh-high boots. 

The scent was overpowering, the taste even more so. Isabela was slick under her tongue, and strong fingers tangled in her hair to guide her where Isabela wanted most. Marian felt heat building between her own legs again just from feeling Isabela jerk against her, hearing her wanton moans. 

Moans which grew steadily more frustrated as Marian explored, until finally Isabela huffed and slipped her own fingers between her legs. Her other hand held Marian’s in place where it was pushing steadily in and out, and soon Isabela was clenching hot around Marian’s fingers, rocking forward and back with the force of her spasms. 

When Isabela’s hand relaxed, Marian slid free, coming up to meet Isabela’s lips with her own. “I’m sorry,” she murmured bashfully into Isabela’s mouth, hoping that it wasn’t _too_ obvious how self-conscious she felt about it. “I guess I’m not as good at that as you are.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Isabela said, sliding her hands up to rest on Marian’s hips. “That just means we’ll have to practice.” She grinned. “Very vigorously,” she mumbled against Marian’s mouth. “Lots and lots of practice.”

Try as she might, Marian couldn’t find any reason to argue with that proposition.

Not that she tried very hard.


End file.
